Trolling

By Kelly McManus

April 2026

My sister Peggy and I weren’t always best friends. Perhaps you’ve noticed how she will often refer to me and our sister Shannon as “the trolls” in her blogs. I find this very insulting. I’ve asked her to stop, but she’s always been very stubborn. For the record, Shannon was never mean enough to be a troll. There can only be one troll in a family, and that honor generally falls to the eldest daughter—me.

I was trained by the best. My Aunt Patricia, Dad’s older sister, is famous in troll lore. Dad was responsible for much of her fame as she appeared in many of his stories, but his real contribution to her legendary trollness was his childhood antics. Without young Pat, she would have never reached the heights of troll greatness. She really was the Troll, and I was proud to be her prodigy, much to Dad’s chagrin. 

My troll potential was first recognized by Aunt Patricia at a very young age. It was very inauspicious, unless you were looking for it. At Grandma’s farmhouse outside Sandpoint, Idaho, my mom and grandma were setting the table for a special holiday dinner. They were making it really fancy with a lace tablecloth crocheted by Grandma, cloth napkins sewn by Mom, and Grandma’s fancy china. To top it off, it was going to be a candle-lit dinner. They had just turned out the overhead light to admire their work, lit only by candles, when I toddled in.

 “I can’t eat in the dark!” I exclaimed. “I have to be able to see what I’m eating—especially at Grandma’s house!”

Aunt Patricia was delighted. “That’s exactly what I said. Kelly is just like me!”

Dad visibly paled.

And thus began my troll mentorship.

It was, by necessity, a long-distance arrangement because we always lived in Eastern Washington; Grandma McManus and the Troll lived on adjoining farms in North Idaho. Fortunately for me, Dad was always a North Idaho boy at heart, and all the wild country and trout streams he loved were near the farm of his childhood, so we were at the farms a lot. And every summer, I spent a week or more by myself at the Troll’s farm for more hands-on troll training and to help keep my younger cousin Lulu entertained. My Uncle John and the Troll both worked long hours outside the farm to keep it afloat, so my cousin Lulu and I were pretty much on our own most days.  

Lulu was not troll material. She was the baby of the family and the only girl. She was gorgeous, and she knew it, but perhaps not so bright, which came in handy as I enlisted her in my burgeoning troll schemes. Ultimately, she held the power card, though, because she was the owner of all the horses. Since horses were the love of my life, I could not involve Lulu in anything too trollish, or I would be banned forever from the horses. Caution was in order, but the neighboring farm’s brood of 6 sons, all bullies ranging in age from 4 to 14, were pushing me to my breaking point. I was sick of their surprise attacks while we were minding our own business, riding horses in the fields or playing in the woods. No place was safe from them. Finally, I’d had it and declared war. The farm boys were going down.

I was raised in an all-girl home, except for poor Dad, so I believed that all boys other than Dad were uncivilized and stupid, and therefore worthy of being trolled, especially if they were bullies. For the most part, I still believe that, but in adulthood, I have confined myself to only instigating a handful of wars with exceptionally annoying men, who also happened to be bullies. I guess I’ve gotten soft in my old age, but frankly, it’s just too easy. The Farm Boy War, however, was one for the ages and still holds a special place in my heart. 

Wars take a lot of planning and prep work. For a week, Lulu and I gathered up all the eggs we could find from the Troll’s free-roaming geese flock. Most had been abandoned in the brush for quite a while because the geese were terrible mothers. The longer they’d been sitting in the sun, the better for us, though. We hauled the fragile eggs up to the hot, dusty second floor of the huge chicken house that was mainly used for storage now. Then, while our growing stockpile of goose ammo baked in the summer heat, Lulu and I would slip through the barbed wire fence of the neighbor’s cow pasture and stealthily slither through the high grass and cow patties to get close enough to the farmhouse that their dogs would erupt. The herd of boys would tumble out of the house, some bearing sticks and rocks, and chase us back to our own farm. The unspoken rule was that neither side could cross the barbed wire fence closest to the other’s actual farmhouse. However, my trollish intuition, honed by my proximity to Aunt Patricia, told me that with enough taunting, the boys would be overcome by their own stupidity and rage, and would chase us back onto our own turf.

The big day arrived. My parents and sisters were coming to the farm that evening to retrieve me from my week-long stay in Troll Land. It was now or never. Lulu and I gently moved our stockpile of rotting goose eggs next to the trapdoor stairs leading up to our chicken house armory. We fastened the trapdoor open, so it couldn’t suddenly slam shut on the mauraders, hopefully chasing us up the stairs. I really didn’t want the door to accidentally close and protect the maurauders from the forthcoming apocalypse, but neither did I want anyone to be physically hurt, even if they were bully boys. I mainly didn’t want to be grounded off the horses, but I also wasn’t raised to be that kind of troll. McManus trolls were known to be pacifists and good Catholics—specializing in teasing and only causing a tiny bit of emotional trauma in our more sensitive victims, eg. Dad and Peggy. Just good, clean fun, Aunt Patricia and I would say as we laughed together, recounting our trollish teasing in later years. Somehow, Dad and Peggy never saw the humor.

All our preparations complete, it was time for Lulu and me to commence our final slither through the cow pasture. The farm dogs erupted on cue, but this time we waited long enough for them to verociously run up to the barbed wire fence we silently waited behind and joyfully kiss our faces as the boys tore out of the house armed with what I now saw as twigs and pebbles compared to our arsenal. Silly boys, I thought, as I turned to sprint back to our farm with the boys hot on our heels. 

To my delight, when we reached home ground, I looked behind me and the boys were already crawling through our barbed wire fence. The days of taunting them had worked! We dashed through Aunt Patricia’s huge garden, dodging snapping geese that were already incensed by people stealing their eggs. They hated us, but they hated the strange boys more, so we gained more ground while the boys chasing us fought off the geese. We could hear their screams as we dashed up the chicken house stairs and lay down silently by the stair opening in the floor next to our goose bombs. Lulu grinned expectantly at me. Maybe my cousin had inherited some troll after all.

The boys finally burst through the chickenhouse door. Lulu and I loaded up and cocked our arms. We held our breath as they saw the stairs and began to squabble with each other about what to do next, since we obviously had the high ground. My entire plan’s success hinged on this moment. If they took our threat seriously, they would send up one scout, probably the four-year-old, to check out the situation, and that would ruin everything. As I expected, though, they under-estimated us because we were girls and decided a show of force was the best strategy.

They barreled up the stairs together, shouting and brandishing their twigs and pebbles, only to be met with a barrage of exploding rotten goose eggs. Blinded by green goo and nauseated by sulfur fumes, they retreated, crawling out of the chicken house, only to be met by a gaggle of enraged geese with vengeance on their minds. The boys fought off the geese and dragged themselves, crying and gagging, home. It was a triumph.

Lulu and I basked in our victory until Aunt Patricia got home from work and the parents of the vanquished bullies showed up on her front stoop to tell on us. Brilliant Troll that she was, Aunt Patricia managed to graciously apologize for our behavior, while, unbeknownst to the parents, lecturing them thoroughly about what notorious bullies their boys were. Lulu and I were brought out to mumble apologies, but we could tell Aunt Patricia was on our side. The parents left satisfied and yet determined to whoop some sense into their sons. Lulu, the Troll, and I all exchanged a knowing smile as the parents marched off, and the boys were never a problem again.

My family showed up shortly thereafter. We had a quick supper with Aunt Patricia’s family, where Lulu and I got to regale everyone with our Farm Boy War story. We are a family of storytellers, so everyone enjoyed our tale, but Aunt Patricia laughed the hardest. Then we headed home. I was assigned the middle of the back seat between Shannon and Peggy, who got the windows because I had been “on vacation” all week. I was still riding my victory high, so I didn’t care.

Spokane is 90 minutes from Sandpoint, so pretty soon the high wore off. I was bored. And I really hated not having my own window.  I decided to entertain myself with one of my favorite troll tricks. I didn’t know the name or the stats when I was a young troll, but only 1% of people have the ability or gift, as I like to say, to deliberately spit a stream of saliva out of both sides of your mouth at once by pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth. It’s called “gleeking”, and I was a pro. 

“Dad, Dad! Kelly is spitting on us!” Peggy and Shannon wailed.

“I did not!” I said. “I’m just looking out the front window because I’m stuck in the middle.”

I smiled at Dad innocently as he looked in the rearview mirror at me. His eyes narrowed. He knew a troll when he saw one.

Epilogue:

Later in life, Dad and Aunt Patricia became best friends. And later in life, Peggy and I became best friends. It was only when I was writing this story that I realized that Dad and his Troll were 6 years apart in age, and Peggy and I are 6 years apart in age. My theory is that a 6-year age gap between siblings is the perfect combination for building your own troll. Keep that in mind if you are still in your childbearing years. Being a troll is a wonderful thing. And sooner or, more often later, the younger siblings will realize this, too.