A Frightening Thought Returns: Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

 

Jeff — Saturday

 

My post last Saturday on the state of domestic violence in Greece triggered a followup topic I intended to explore today. Instead, though, I've decided to  spare the bloodshed and opt for the pastoral. 

 

We’re not talking Robert Frost here, but picture a day by quiet woods far removed from any public road. Deer graze in peace by a pasture while just beyond the borders of the farm hunters wait.  And geese drift upon a pond—still but for the ripples they create—seemingly oblivious to platter size snapping turtles lurking below.

Matt Groening's Scream travesty

Okay, so it’s more like a Stephen King pastoral, but don’t blame me for the tension of the setting, blame Jason.  And I don’t mean the one with the fleece.  I mean the Jason.  The one with the hockey mask.

For not so distant from my tranquil woods sits the actual site of the fictional Camp Crystal Lake.  From here launched one of America’s most successful media franchises, the very one that turned slasher Jason’s hockey mask into an immediately recognizable symbol of pop culture.  

My Woods

Thank you, Friday the 13^th (1980), for giving my woods that unique, special touch it lacked when the only distraction to its sylvan setting was the occasional wandering seven-hundred-pound black bear and entourage.  It makes me wonder how peacefully Thoreau would have slept had he known his beloved Walden Pond had a psycho past. 

John Blair (1802-1899)

I mean we’re talking about a sleepy, northwestern New Jersey community of less than 6000 souls nestled within the Great Appalachian Valley.  It was named after one of the richest men of the 19^th Century, John Insley Blair, who practiced philanthropy and managed his vast railroad and business empire from this rural town until his death at the age of ninety-seven--less than thirty days from the 20th Century.

Today, Blairstown is home to a prestigious private school, a private airport, and woods filled with summer camps for city kids—yes, all of the above is terrific fodder for a story, but why did they have to pick my woods for the film. 

Main Street Blairstown

 

I wasn’t living here when the movie was shot, but locals tell me they didn’t think much about it at the time.  Today, though, there’s no escaping that Friday the 13^th stands high in this community's history of significant cultural events.  Indeed, when twenty years later The Blair Witch Project launched as one of the most successful independent films of all time, some thought it another film linked to Blairstown but that distinct horror honor belongs solely to the woods of Maryland. 

Jason's woods

 

I still haven’t seen Friday the 13^th.  I spend a lot of time in those woods and have no desire to link the film’s images to my reality.  No need to be looking over my shoulder any more than the thought of it already has me doing—especially when I walk Jason’s woods after dark.  And just in case you think all this is a bit silly, Blairstown has another unique place in the history of modern American horror stories.  But this time the story is for real.

Two years after Jason first stalked Blairstown’s woods, and less than a month before he took up wearing the hockey mask in a sequel, the body of a petite fourteen to eighteen year-old female turned up murdered in a Blairstown cemetery.  She was named Princess Doe and became the first unidentified body entered into the FBI’s National Crime Information Center (NCIC) computer system.  Nearly thirty years later, the crime remains unsolved.

 

Computer generated composite of Princess Doe

The wind is now rattling the panes of my garret window.  

Perhaps it’s a sign for me to return to fictional thoughts.  That’s not to suggest I actually believe Jason’s out there haunting my woods (he said prayerfully)…but I do have a farmer’s message for any itinerant, machete wielding wannabe: I use double-ought in my shotgun, sucker.

 

––Jeff

Jeff’s Upcoming Events

 

CrimeFest, Bristol UK

 

Panel THURSDAY, MAY 9, 2024 @ 17.00

“Overstepping the Mark: Abuses of Privilege and Power” with

Ajay Chowdhury, Alex North, Kate Ellis, Jeffrey Siger, Sam Holland (Moderator) 

 

Panel FRIDAY, 10 MAY 10 @ 17:10

“What a Thrill: Page-Turners and Cliff Hangers” with
Chris Curran, Antony Dunford, Charles Harris, Christine Poulson, Jeffrey Siger (Moderator)

Triskaidekaphobia: Good-bye 13

This past year has had its ups and downs for me, but truth to tell while the ups have been lovely, they were few and mostly far between, while the downs have been pretty low.   There are years like that in one’s life.  I don’t really blame my bad moments of this past year on the number thirteen, but I have to admit it crossed my mind.  Several times.

I am not among them, but there are serious triskaidekaphobics in the world.  I met one once at a dinner party in a beautiful house on a hilltop in that paradise called The Chianti.    Around the table were twelve people enjoying the beauty of the food, the wine, the setting.  The guests were friends of my hosts and members of a rarified social circle of old Tuscan families.  Between the main course and dessert, a grandson of the hosts dropped in to say hello.  His grandfather and I moved apart and made room for the young man to pull up a chair and join in.  As soon as he, the thirteenth person, sat at the table, a local doyenne at the other end popped up, and holding her white linen napkin to her breast, made a face as if she had been threatened with a lightning bolt.    She refused to be among thirteen people sitting at a table.

This variety of thirteen superstition is based on the Last Supper. It is an insult to seat thirteen around the table because it implies that one of them will turnout to be a traitor.  There is also the fear that one will soon die.  I say "Poppycock," but evidently the lady with the napkin thought differently. The host had no choice but to banish the beautiful young man to a corner of the room.

Other superstitions about thirteen predate the birth of Christ.  There was a myth about the code of Hammurabi (1780 BC), that the thirteenth law had to do with the death of the seller before a sale was consummated.  Oh,oh!  The number thirteen is associated with death.

In ancient Persia, they thought that the constellations of their twelve-month Zodiac would each rule the planet for a thousand years, and then in the thirteenth    millennia the world as we know it would collapse into chaos, which, I suppose may yet happen, but there isn't much time for that in what remains of 2013.

Then there are old Norse myths in which the thirteenth god, Loki, arranges the death of Balder, the son of Odin.  And the brother's Grimm made it the thirteenth fairy who wickedly cursed Sleeping Beauty at her baptism ceremony.

At the end of the Nineteenth Century, high level Americans, beginning with a group of New Yorkers, decided to fight the superstition, especially as it surrounded the fear of Friday, the 13th.  Soon there were Thirteen Clubs throughout North America, where thirteen members met on every Friday the thirteenth in room thirteen of a hotel at 8:13 PM.  Five US Presidents beginning with Chester A. Arthur up until Teddy Roosevelt were members.  They didn't make much headway.  “Thirteen” still sounds like bad luck.  For instance, there are still many buildings--offices and apartments-- all over the US that skip the number 13 when numbering floors.  Does it occur to people who live or work on the 14th floor that they are really on the thirteenth?

I myself, do not blame any of my difficulties of the past year on the number thirteen.  I am however looking forward to 2014.  Fourteen seems to me so much nicer a number, optimist that I am.

We have a new community tradition in New York. I am writing this on New York's Seventh Annual Good Riddance Day.  We celebrate it by going to Times Square, taking along bad memories of the year, represented by pieces of paper--CAT scans, Dear John letters, foreclosure notices.  There is a shredder in the square where we can consign the bad news to oblivion.  What a great way to symbolically jettison the past and look to the coming year with hope.

So my wishes are for all of us.  If your 2013 was like mine, not one of your favorites, I wish for much better days ahead for us both.  Even if it was a banner year for you, I hope 2014 will be twice, three times, ten times as good.

Happy 2014!!!

Annamaria - the LAST Monday of 2013

A Frightening Thought: Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know...

I had a view on Greece I wanted to express today, but decided instead to share this view from my New Jersey garret window.  It seems a far more comprehensible scene at the moment.  Besides, after Leighton’s searing to the nerve piece this week on looming Brazilian class warfare, I saw no reason to risk Foreign Affairs filing another grievance with the blog gods claiming “turf invasion.” 

So, today I'm aiming for the pastoral.

Picture a late autumn day by quiet woods far removed from any public road.  We’re not talking Robert Frost here, though the weather is about the same.  

Deer graze in peace by a pasture while just beyond the borders of the farm the hunters wait.  And geese drift upon a pond—still but for the ripples they create—seemingly oblivious to platter size snapping turtles lurking below.

Matt Groening's Scream travesty

Okay, so it’s more like a Stephen King pastoral, but don’t blame me for the tension of the setting, blame Jason.  And I don’t mean the one with the fleece.  I mean the Jason.  The one with the hockey mask.

For not so distant from my tranquil woods sits the actual site of the fictional Camp Crystal Lake.  From here launched one of America’s most successful media franchises, the very one that turned slasher Jason’s hockey mask into an immediately recognizable symbol of pop culture.  

My Woods

Thank you, Friday the 13^th (1980), for giving my woods that unique, special touch it lacked when the only distraction to its sylvan setting was the occasional wandering seven hundred pound black bear and entourage.  It makes me wonder how peacefully Thoreau would have slept had he known his beloved Walden Pond had a psycho past. 

John Blair (1802-1899)

I mean we’re talking about a sleepy, northwestern New Jersey community of less than 6000 souls nestled within the Great Appalachian Valley.  It was named after one of the richest men of the 19^th Century, John Insley Blair, who practiced philanthropy and managed his vast railroad and business empire from this rural town until his death at the age of ninety-seven--less than thirty days from the 20th Century.

Today, Blairstown is home to a prestigious private school, a private airport, and woods filled with summer camps for city kids—yes, all of the above is terrific fodder for a story, but why did they have to pick my woods for the film. 

Main Street Blairstown

I wasn’t living here when the movie was shot, but locals tell me they didn’t think much about it at the time.  Today, though, there’s no escaping that Friday the 13^th stands high in this community's history of significant cultural events.  Indeed, when twenty years later The Blair Witch Project launched as one of the most successful independent films of all time, some thought it another film linked to Blairstown but that distinct horror honor belongs solely to the woods of Maryland. 

Jason's woods

I still haven’t seen Friday the 13^th.  I spend a lot of time in those woods and have no desire to link the film’s images to my reality.  No need to be looking over my shoulder any more than the thought of it already has me doing—especially when I walk Jason’s woods after dark.  And just in case you think all this is a bit silly, Blairstown has another unique place in the history of modern American horror stories.  But this time the story is for real.

Computer generated composite of Princess Doe

Two years after Jason first stalked Blairstown’s woods, and less than a month before he took up wearing the hockey mask in a sequel, the body of a petite fourteen to eighteen year-old female turned up murdered in a Blairstown cemetery.  She was named Princess Doe and became the first unidentified body entered into the FBI’s National Crime Information Center (NCIC) computer system.  Nearly thirty years later, the crime remains unsolved. 

The wind is now rattling the panes of my garret window.  

Perhaps it’s a sign for me to return to fictional thoughts.  That’s not to suggest I actually believe Jason’s out there haunting my woods (he said prayerfully)…but I do have a farmer’s message for any itinerant, machete wielding wannabe: I use double-ought in my shotgun, sucker.

Jeff — Saturday