Trick Or Treat

Somewhere out there, hiding under the fall leaves, are people who don’t like Halloween, but I’m definitely not one of them.  Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays and it still is, even though I graduated from trick-or-treating to providing the treats a long time ago.

When I was a kid Halloween was fun, although I suffered from severe costume angst.  I dreaded looking different from everybody else which is what Halloween costumes were all about, at least at our house. What I really wanted was what all my classmates had - one of those cheesy, sleazy, Snow White or Cinderella costumes from Woolworths - the kind with plastic masks and satiny, glitter-encrusted dresses that fell apart in a stiff wind.  My mom, however, is a naturally flamboyant person who loves to stand out in a crowd, and her costume horizons far exceeded Woolworth’s.  What was Mom’s idea of a good costume? Well, one time, she and my dad went to a party as “His” and “Hers” outhouses with giant, rubber bare feet sticking out of them. Another year she made huge, papier mache, pink elephant heads, and once she wore a faux leopard-skin sarong and an old, rump-sprung raccoon coat.  (I’m unclear as to the theme of that costume.)

Mom didn’t have much luck being creative with my brother who insisted on being Zorro year after year; and, for all I know, may still be dressing up as “that bold renegade [who] carves a Z with his blade.” For my sister and me, Mom’s scornful rejection of the store-bought costumes forced her into hand-to-hand combat with a sewing machine.  Her motto, “If you can read, you can sew,” didn’t always hold up.   Most of her sewing projects resulted in ugly, painful scenes verging on meltdown because: A. she has many virtues but patience has never been in the top 25 and B. she refused to believe that a pattern involving lots of tucks, lace, flounces and gathering was beyond her abilities.

After everything Mom went through to make my costumes, I couldn’t very well refuse to wear them.  The only one I really liked, however, was a witch costume because there were always a lot of other witches at the school Halloween parade. The Raggedy Ann costume, which had a dress and pinafore like my idol, Laura Ingalls Wilder wore, showed promise until I saw the red/orange yarn wig that went with it.  A WIG! SOCIAL DISASTER ALERT! NOBODY COOL WORE A WIG!  (Don’t tell my mom but that wig sat out the school Halloween party in my desk.)

As a mom, I know I followed many of my parents' patterns in raising my kids, but, at least, the Halloween costumes I made didn’t generate the same sewing disasters.  The fact that the boys didn’t want to be ruffle covered princesses, tulle-encased ballerinas or feathery, winged fairies also helped.  My most ambitious costume projects were a lion and a stegosaurus, which David requested and John later wore.  After those efforts, I got very good at piecing together costumes by sewing a few straight seams, adding some strategic Velcro and using accessories from the Halloween store.  We outfitted a skeleton, Davy Crockett, a pirate, Robin Hood, Dr. Watson, two of the Three Musketeers, Paul Bunyan and assorted monsters without a lot of fuss.

Having kids allowed me to continue other Halloween traditions from my childhood.  We always carved at least one, and sometimes two pumpkins with the boys, and the seeds and insides were just as satisfyingly slimy and icky as I remembered them.  We put up a few decorations, including a larger-than-life, double-sided Dracula head on the glass storm door.  (I don’t know if Dracula ever scared any trick-or-treaters but I jumped every time I opened my front door.)   On Halloween night, it was déjà vu to watch John and David come home, dump all their candy on the living room floor and enjoy sorting, counting, and fondling it, exactly as I had done.  It was also déjà vu when we ran out of candy the first few years and made the boys recycle their least favorite goodies, like suckers and tootsie rolls, exactly as my mean parents had done.

On a good Halloween, our Eugenie Lane house drew 400 to 500 trick-or-treaters from nearby houses and apartments.  A few people complained about all the strangers who came into the neighborhood by car; but I say, if I'm in the business of passing out candy, bring on the customers.  Most years, our good friends came to help.  Caroll brought a vast basket of candy insuring that we were always the last house on the street to run out of treats.  George brought a vast knowledge of T.V. and movie characters, all of whom showed up at our door.  He identified the Teletubbies, the Star Wars creatures and every super hero, even the minor ones, for us. When a kid approached the door in a bizarre outfit, George would say something like, “Oh, you’re Wookah-Mookah-Lookah from Pookah – nice costume.”  We got a reputation for being cool, a reputation that was further enhanced on the Halloween when the Perpetrators, John’s nine-member garage band, played Ska music in our driveway.

When we moved to our current house, I figured the Halloween fun was over.  Only about half the houses on our street were even finished, and we doubted trick-or-treaters would bother to find us. We were ready to accept an invitation to return to Eugenie for the night when the neighbors here decided to pass out candy together at the top of our street and to throw a Halloween party at the same time.  Are we in a great neighborhood or what?

So, every year since then, we all set up a Trick-or-Treat table, lay out our baskets of candy and invite the hordes of princesses, pirates and ghosts to choose a treat from each basket, something the kids like and their parents love, since it saves them a trip up and down our hilly street.  Our street party has grown to include a fire-pit bonfire, hot soup and chili, great sandwiches, snacks, desserts, homemade caramels (hang onto your fillings!) and hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and whipped cream, the ultimate drink to ward off the autumn chill. It’s the perfect way to get in shape for the holiday season.  Happy Halloween!!

P.S. I just found the Halloween photo of my mom at left.  In case you're wondering, the babe in red with the pearls is my dad.  Guess who thought up his costume

P.P.S. Guess who just celebrated his first Halloween?

Why Can't We Be Friends?

I know that Paul’s car hates me. I now see the pattern in seemingly unrelated incidents of the past 5 years. The jigsaw puzzle is complete. I can’t believe I didn’t catch on before because, now, it couldn’t be clearer. I GET IT!!! I FINALLY GET IT!!!

This was so unexpected. I’ve never felt hostility from any of the cars in my past, and some of them had good reason to be hostile. I might as well admit that I was probably the only person in a high school class of over 600 who required remedial behind-the-wheel Driver Training. To this day, the rear-view mirror remains a mystery to me so I just back up and hope. The first and last time I drove my dad’s Dodge Dart to West High, I had a showdown with the manual transmission while trying to turn left into the parking lot and wound up getting a group of guys to push my car off the road, which wasn’t all bad.

When I started college, Dad got me a cute, red and white Rambler American (with an automatic transmission) to drive to and from U.C. That little car taught me important stuff like how slow you have to go to avoid getting a speeding ticket in a school zone and when the gas gauge reads empty for long enough, it really means business. One night after a sorority meeting, I couldn’t get the car to start. After a number of unsuccessful tries, I did what any intelligent, confident, independent young woman would have done - I called my dad. When he arrived, he opened the hood (something that never crossed my mind) and found that someone had stolen my battery. At least it wasn’t my fault.

While I wasn’t the perfect owner, I know that Rambler loved me. I’m also certain it missed me desperately when I moved on campus and my car was passed along to my brother who was running his own personal Demolition Derby at the time. (The poor baby ended its days as a red and white car pancake in the salvage yard.) When Paul and I got married, my dad gave us his Javelin. Later we acquired my sister-in-law’s used Oldsmobile Cutlass (aka “The Cutloose”) which had a temperamental carburetor and paint problems – sort of chronic car eczema. I got on well with both of them especially because, with a used car, someone else gives it the first scratch(es) or dent(s).

Our first new car purchase was a little, brown Datsun B210 – the kind of car that today’s big, hulking SUV’s (aka Urban Assault Vehicles) eat for breakfast. It ran well and had more interior space than you would imagine. One Sunday, we took it to a flea market and, on the trip home, that car held a large birdcage on a stand, a baker’s scale with a marble base, a fireplace screen, a side chair, one toddler and four adults. Of course, we were all young and flexible then. Anyway, after I bent the Datsun’s front bumper on another car, that B210 never gave me even one mean look and I appreciated it.

Before John was born, we moved into the family car market, purchasing our first Volvo. All our Volvos were reliable, sturdy and safe, even in an accident. By the way, here’s my Tip of the Day: Don’t have an accident with a 2-year-old in the car unless you want to hear a squeaky voice parroting, “Volvo broke! Volvo broke!” about 4000 times. Like Timex watches, Volvos do take a licking and keep on ticking – our original one ran for over 20 years, surviving both my accident and almost total immersion in a flooded parking lot although the water somehow made the seat sink to where I could no longer see over the steering wheel. A Volvo’s only real fault is that it doesn’t do well in snow; but, hey, we all have faults. When the boys were in elementary school, we just took some extra personal snow days.

My nominee for the all-around, user friendly, roll-with-the-punches car, however, is the Dodge MiniVan – we are on our third one. Ours can hold 2 each of passengers, tandem bikes and golf bags plus a pile of luggage and accessories. Best of all, a MiniVan doesn’t pout if you scratch its side on a grocery cart, it doesn’t get bitter if you crease its door on a concrete pole and it doesn’t get snotty if you pull into the garage without remembering that the bike rack is attached to its roof. (By the way, the five most welcome words in the English language are, “We can buff it out.”) Minivans are also very good in the snow although, at this stage of my life, I don’t drive in snow any more, at least not on purpose.

When we moved, we sold our original Volvo so Paul would have a better car for his longer, hillier commute to the office. The black Lexus was the first car he got to drive when it was brand new and it is definitely the coolest looking car we’ve ever owned. With the MiniVan to do all the heavy lifting, the Lexus has a very cushy lifestyle with us. You would expect it to be grateful and congenial, and it is – at least with Paul.

Every time I drive it, however, and even when I just ride in it, something bad happens. Paul can wear sunscreen in the Lexus and it’s fine; but, wherever my sunscreened arms and legs touch the seat or the armrest, it turns yellow. There is something weird about its lights so that, after I drive it, the lights are always off when they should be on and on when they should be off even though I NEVER deliberately touch the lights. Somehow, whenever it spends the day with me, it picks up a souvenir without telling me – something like a gray scrape on the front bumper, a yellow mark on the back near the gas tank or a scratch the length of one side made by some vandal with a key. Frankly, you’d think a car like that would have some street smarts and display a few self-defense skills, but I guess that’s too much to ask. And, yes, I was driving it when it was traumatized by having its trunk smashed in; but, somebody slid into me, and for the first time in my life THAT WASN’T MY FAULT.

Until yesterday, I held out hope that I was wrong about the Lexus’s attitude towards me. Maybe I was being a little paranoid. Paul took my car in for an oil change so I drove the Lexus for the day. He pulled it out of the garage so I wouldn’t have any issues there. When I had to park on the street near the outdoor education center where I teach, I eased it oh-so-gently alongside the curb. I put off a trip to Kroger’s, not wanting to subject it to the rough-and-tumble of a grocery store parking lot on my watch. When I pulled back in to the garage, I made an extreme effort to get it into correct alignment with the garage doors. I thought I was home-free. Right. Last night, we got into the Lexus to drive home from the Playhouse; and Paul said, “Jill, the lights are turned off.” I could swear on a stack of chocolate chip cookies that I didn’t do it but what would be the point?  At least I know where I stand.

Veni, Vidi, Vici

I love to cook but have never been good at housekeeping, and I don’t have any aspirations in that direction either. I just don’t see the point to it. If I sweep the floors or dust the furniture, they will just get crumb-y and dusty again; and as for cleaning the house from top to bottom before company comes, forget it. If your guests are real friends, they won’t be put off by a few dust bunnies. Besides, any normal person would want to make friends with someone who makes fantastic biscotti; but what kind of a neatness freak would say, “Let’s get together so you can show me how you keep your refrigerator so spotless.”


This will not surprise my family. One Christmas after we were all married, my mom had a grown-up piñata for us. It was full of wrapped but unlabeled presents; so, as we opened them, we had to guess who they were for. Choosing the recipient of the Odor-Eaters for smelly shoes was a slam-dunk at the time, although now I can’t remember if it was my brother or my sister. When my dad opened up a plaque with the saying, “Nobody ever died of oven-crud poisoning,” everyone cried in unison, “That’s for Jill.” So what? Paul has claimed the title of El Primo Housekeeper since he was in dental school, and I don’t want to muscle in on his territory or damage his self esteem.

I do, however, find satisfaction in straightening out cupboards and drawers when the planets are aligned correctly and I am not in the middle of a good book. This week’s cool weather and a shopping trip to Rookwood Commons put me in the mood to shake things up in my closets. Fortified with a handful of chocolate chips and feeling particularly ruthless, I laid siege to my large, walk-in bedroom closet, which is big enough to hold both summer and winter clothes.

Out went three pairs of pants, two sweaters and one dress that I’ve kept for the past 5 years because I’d look good in them if I ever lost 10 pounds.  Out went one pair of shoes that are a sprained ankle waiting to happen and two more pairs of shoes that, in three years, haven’t loosened up enough to feel comfortable for more than about 10 minutes.  (Why did I buy them? Well, if you’re a woman, you don’t need to ask that question and if you’re a man, I’m not going to try to explain.)  Out went 16 dust covered belts since I can’t remember the last time I wore a blouse tucked in and have no plans to do so in the future.  Out went a mustard yellow knit top when I realized that even if I tried it on 500 more times in 500 different kinds of lighting, it would still make me look like I belonged on a hot dog.  And, in a supremely liberating moment, out went a bunch of scarves because I finally admitted that I am a scarf-ly-challenged person who has no clue how to drape them, tie them or wear them without constantly rearranging them.  I stuffed my pile of rejects into five bags and immediately took them to the Goodwill Store before any of them could appeal my decision.

This afternoon, the cleaning rampage turned to my kitchen junk drawer, the catch-all for anything that doesn’t have a place somewhere else in the house. By the way, junk drawers are an amazing phenomenon, and I can’t truly relate to anyone who doesn’t keep at least one. Although I don’t believe in ghosts, pyramid power or any other supernatural stuff, I have had direct, personal experience with the regenerative powers of junk drawers. Probably half a dozen times over the past 10 years, I have given a “Junk Drawer Starter Kit” as a bridal shower gift. I’ve filled a quart sized ziploc bag with pencils, pennies, golf tees, matches, buttons, toothpicks, paper clips, crayons, reinforcements, peppermints, etc. from my own junk drawers and instructed the bride-to-be to dump the contents into an empty drawer and wait a month. “Voila!” Not only does the new household have a well established junk drawer but mine refills itself; and I’ve got plenty for the next shower gift. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.

So, after I conquered the kitchen drawer, I attacked the lower level closet where I keep all of my boxes, tissue paper, gift bags, wrapping paper and ribbons. It took only about fifteen minutes to turn that storage area into something that would warm Martha Stewart’s heart - not really a serious challenge. I am now ready to whip my linen closet into shape and to reorganize all of our travel materials, which are currently fighting for space with a ton of Paul’s office checks, deposit slips and old invoices; that is, unless I give in to temptation and start reading “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest.”

This winter, Paul and I plan to go through all of our storage areas and eliminate even more stuff – or at least that’s my plan and Paul will go along with it as long as I don’t make him throw out any radios or records. Radios, regardless of their condition, have been off limits for a long time; but I learned my lesson about records just last spring. While exercising, Paul was trying to listen to “Sex Life of the Primate,” a crackly, scratched comedy record that had belonged to a pair of notorious LP abusers, my parents.

“It’s not like my records,” he complained, finally shutting it off. “It’s unplayable.”
“So,” I said, seizing the moment, “you’re going to throw it out?”
Dead silence followed. I finally decided to play the understanding wife and said, “That’d be like cutting off your finger, right?”
“Yeah,” he replied, and back it went into the stack of records.

I think I’ll wait until David and John have made definite plans to come to Cincinnati for the holidays before I tell them it’s time to go through the boxes of their stuff that have been sitting, unopened, on cupboard shelves since we moved here seven years ago. I’m even willing to use Christmas cookies as a bribe. It could be a lot of fun, and it will definitely be more satisfying than scrubbing the bathroom floor.