Scary Good Times–Memories of Halloween

"MOSAIC" of Harborland in Kobe, Hyog...
“MOSAIC” of Harborland in Kobe, Hyogo prefecture, Japan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Smiling Jack-O-Lanterns, pumpkin-scented candles glowing, pumpkin spice coffee creamer in my pumpkin spice coffee,  and candy–lots and lots of candy.  Boo!  It’s Halloween.  What’s not to love.  I don’t know about you, but my memories of Halloween are both scary and sweet.  Here are some of my favorite Halloween memories.

Today, the haunted houses scream horror movie set, with one located on nearly every block.  Back in the old days, there was only one truly haunted house in our area,  known as “Scream in the Dark”.  Renowned for being extremely intense, my brothers and I waited in line for hours just to say we survived this horrific experience.  Set in a truly eerie, condemned, old mansion,  “Scream in the Dark” sat on a huge lot of land, off one of the main streets in our city.  Actually, the scariest aspects of “Scream in the Dark” were the “Headless Horsemen” that roamed the property, and exorbitant admission fees they charged.

Another of my favorite Halloween memories featured our dog, Machen, and a neighbor/friend of the family.  First, you need to understand that Machen was a registered German Shepard, trained as a guard dog.   Machen’s previous owners, were moving and needed someone to take her.  When my mom, a true dog lover laid eyes on this majestic dog, it was love at first sight.  Apparently, the feeling was mutual.  So, without giving a thought to the consequences of having a guard dog as a family pet, Machen became our pet.  One Halloween, Mr.  Dailey, neighbor and family friend(at least prior to this incident)dropped by our house, unexpectantly, to show us his Halloween costume–a black and white striped prison convict’s outfit.   As soon as the door opened, Machen caught sight of the “convict”.  In a flash she was off, charging toward the door to protect her family from this “dangerous” intruder.  Fortunately, Mr. Dailey, fairly spry on his feet, bolted out of our house,  and reached the front door just seconds before our dog caught up to him, his life flashing before his eyes.  Though traumatized, Mr. Dailey remained our friend–but made sure to call our house before any personal visits to verify our dog was secure, and he would be safe.

Costumes, a hallmark of Halloween, bring up fond memories, too.  My mom, a working mom, came up with some truly creative and inventive costumes for us to wear.   What she lacked in time, she made up for in originality.  Draping and wrapping oriental fabric around me like a kimono,  face powdered , perfectly applied make-up, hair styled,  and, instantly I transformed into a Geisha–a real china doll.  Too cute.  Then, there was the year mom, seeing how important it was to me, agreed to make a homemade  Lil’ Bo Peep outfit for me to wear to the school carnival.  It was made of a beautiful shiny blue and gold brocade-like material, lace on the hem, neckline and sleeves, and, instead of a bonnet, Mom made a sweet matching cap out of the same material.  I wore my costume proudly through the halls of my school carnival, and later on as Meg in the play Little Women.  Recently, I ran across a photo of me dressed up in another of my mom’s creations.  About eight years old, wearing an elegant turquoise dress, with a slim black-belt,  fashionable straw hat, tiny stocking feet perilously perched on oversized high heels, face perfectly painted, wearing elbow-length white gloves,  standing next to my parent’s car, I was a genuine Glamor Girl.  Stunning.

Not only was it fun to dress up in costumes, there was another reason I looked forward to Halloween–the annual Halloween Carnival at my grade school.  It was awesome.  I’m not sure who designed it, but there was an amazing haunted house  set up in the school’s art department, where the fantastic props were no doubt created.  I distinctly remember bodiless, bloody heads sitting on tables draped in white, no doubt covering the bodies underneath the tables that were, in fact, thankfully attached to the bloody heads on top.  These “bloody heads” freaked me out because they would talk to you as you walked by.  Really creepy.  I also remember a slithering, live snake at one of the spooky stations in the haunted house.  That’s all it took, and I was out of the room in a flash, screaming all the way.

In addition to the scary stuff, the Halloween Carnival featured fun games for families to play, like Go Fish.  My favorite game was called Cake Walk.  Similar to Musical Chairs, players walked around a circle located on the floor covered in numbers, while music played.  As soon as the music stopped, you stopped, and located the number nearest to you.  A number was drawn out of a hat, and the person standing on the corresponding number was the winner.  The prize was, as you may have surmised, a cake.  Not a slice, but a whole freakin’ cake.  The winner would walk over to a table brimming with all sorts of cakes, some homemade, some store-bought, and choose their favorite cake.  The earlier in the evening you won in the Cake Walk, the better the cake/prize.  I looked forward to this game every year.  In fact, one year, not only did I win a cake, but my brothers also won cakes.  That makes three cakes–one a piece!  Another delightful game I absolutely adored was the Doll Walk.  Exactly like the Cake Walk, only the prize was your choice of dolls.  Some of these dolls were very nice, indeed.  Plus one year, my brother, Rich, in a rare act of humility and kindness, actually won a round of the Doll Walk and picked out a beautiful blond doll in a lovely red dress, and presented her to me.  Shades of the generous man he would ultimately become.

As for the sweet, you can’t talk about Halloween without mentioning Trick or Treating, and, of course, candy.  Another year, my mom, the consummate costumer, worked her magic yet again, dressing us in some of dad’s old torn shirts, floppy felt hats, and charcoaled cheeks.  Suddenly, we were three, albeit, cute hobos.   Eager to head out the door, mom taught us a song, “just in case someone asks you for a trick before they give you a treat”.  Now, as experienced Trick or Treaters,  we had never encountered anyone ever calling us on our offer of Trick–ever.  So, as usual,  mom, was “over” preparing us for something unlikely to happen.  Smart kids, we wisely patronized our mom, and learned the Trick, consisting of learning the song, “Side-By-Side”.  I still remember the words.

Though we ain’t got a barrel of money,

Maybe we’re ragged and funny.

But we travel along,

Singin’ a song,

Side-by-side.

After enduring mom’s music lesson, we were off.  Typically, we ran down to the end of our block, working our way back toward our house, stopping only briefly for updates and the latest reconnaissance from neighbor kids who’d already surveyed the sugar situation. Homes with Snickers–good.  Unidentifiable taffy–bad.  Nearly home, we stopped at a house located across the street from ours.  A lovely, little ol’ lady answered our knock.  Opening the door, and spying three little hobos, simultaneously we cried, “Trick or Treat”.   Opening our bags wide with anticipation, we fully expected the automatic dumping of treats into them.  However, with a rather sheepish grin, the dear lady muttered, “Trick first, then Treat”.  What?  You’ve got to be kidding–in all our years of Trick-or-Treating, no one had ever dared ask us for a trick.  Until now.  How did my mom know?  After the initial shock of her request, and the horrible realization that we’d have to perform in order to be rewarded treats, I started to sing, “Side-By-Side”.  Dumbstruck, my brothers mouths were wide open, but nothing was coming out.  So, instead of singing “Side-By-Side” as a trio, I was singing solo.  In retrospect, the song I should have sung was “All By Myself”.   Such is the plight of being the older sister.  As my solo rendition concluded, our neighbor lady finally rewarded us with many treats.  Proving once again, that mom is always right.

Today, we still celebrate Halloween, though a little differently than when I was a young girl.  One of my family’s favorite traditions is watching Disney’s version of “Sleepy Hollow”.  You just can’t beat Bing Crosby narrating and singing his way through Washington Irving’s Tale of Ichabod Crane.   We’ll also be enjoying fifty cent corn dogs from Sonic, along with a free Halloween-themed donut from Krispy Kreme.  I also keep a large bag of candy ready, just in case there are any Trick-or-Treaters.  And, if you happen to find yourself in my neighborhood on Halloween, beware.  Don’t say “Trick-or-Treat” unless you really mean it.   Now, go scare up some Halloween memories of your own!

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Doggone Funny

Kalaöljy kapseleita Fish oil capsules
Kalaöljy kapseleita Fish oil capsules (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Joyce Meyer recently told a story about something that happened with her little dog.  In the morning, Joyce’s normal routine was to let her dog out to do its business, rewarding them with a treat afterwards.  However, on this particular day, when her doggie came back inside, instead of giving the dog a treat, Joyce popped the tasty morsel into her own mouth.  Which, reminds me of something that happened in our household recently.  I must preface this with a little background information about my husband, Steve.  First of all, I love my husband, warts and all.  Goodness knows I’ve got my share of warts.  But, some of his habits are, how can I put this, less than “tasteful”.  Early in our relationship, I invited my husband to lunch with my parents, whom he’d never met.  Already smitten, I was hoping he’d make a good impression.  We were having a delightful lunch, and right in the middle, Steve stabbed his fork into my last bite of meatloaf, “You don’t want that, do you?”  Stunned, “I guess not” was all the response I could manage.  My dad, known more for his quick wit than civility, said, “You picked a good one here”.  Even though my husband failed the school of social graces, I married him anyway.  Some battles are worth fighting–this wasn’t one of them.  Well, one of his habits came back to “bite him”, so to speak.

My son, Zach, a college student,  usually feeds Rosy, our dog, her dinner.  But, school has been requiring so much of his time, that I decided to give him a break and feed Rosy myself.  The problem was that I was also simultaneously fixing our dinner.  While preparing dinner, I normally set the spoon that I’m stirring the food with onto a paper plate.  Multitasking as always, I set about fixing Rosy’s meal, which consists of dog food crunchies, fish oil, arthritis pill, and no salt French green beans, which I mash up with a fork, and stir into the rest of her concoction in her dog bowl.  Without thinking, I set the fork down on the same paper plate that I had set the stirring spoon for our meal. I stepped away to fold a little laundry.  As usual, my husband made his way into the kitchen, and lickety split, pun intended, licked the contents off the fork.  “What are you cooking? It tastes sort of like fish, but not any fish I’ve ever eaten before.”   Right then,  I realized what had happened, and died laughing, totally at my husband’s expense.  I wanted to tell him what he’d actually eaten was from Rosy’s meal, but couldn’t stop laughing.  Finally, composing myself, I revealed the truth about what my husband had unknowingly just ingested.  Grunting, “That’s gross”, he made his out of the kitchen.  You know what, I think I’ve figured out how to break some of my husband’s bad habits.  He hasn’t licked a random fork in a long time.

Maybe You Can Teach An Old Dog New Tricks

A Border Collie descending an A-frame at an ag...
A Border Collie descending an A-frame at an agility competition. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What a proud moment this was for me.  I was attending my first graduation ceremony as a parent.  Like any other doting mom, I made sure that I had a good camera so I could take lots of pictures during this momentous occasion.  Of course, my graduate had to have clean teeth and brushed hair.  She looked absolutely radiant, the blue mortarboard delicately perched on her dark, wavy locks.  This was not just my triumphant moment–it was Rosy’s.

I eagerly snapped the proud graduate’s pictures, capturing the brightness and intelligence shining from her eyes.  Surprisingly patient through the first couple of pictures, Rosy, the graduate soon grew tired of the headpiece, and shook it off her head, throwing it onto the floor.  Most parents would have been mortified by this brattish behavior, but I laughed hysterically, as did the other parents attending the ceremony.  Thankfully, this was not the behavior of a defiant teenager.  No, this was the response of a confused, middle-aged dog during her graduation ceremony from Beginner Obedience Class.

It all began when my teenage son decided he wanted to get Rosy into Agility, after watching too many dog shows on Animal Planet.  After all, most agility champions are border collies, and Rosy was part border collie (we think).  She’s a rescue dog, so there’s no way to know for sure.  But, she’s got the distinctive black and white markings of a border collie, so, we figure she’s at least got a little bit somewhere.  The other part, is up for grabs (based on some of her habits, I’m guessing junkyard dog’s not too far off the mark).  Anyway, based on her possible border collie heritage, she had potential in agility.  Potential is the key word.  So far, her potential had only been explored as to how much food she could consume.  She demonstrated great ability in eating anything and everything that didn’t eat her first.  This “skill” netted her about ten extra pounds than the charts indicated healthy for her frame.

Despite her weight issues, Rosy did have other qualities that showed promise.  She chased squirrels and possums scurrying along our back fence with amazing speed.  Plus, in spite of some of her rather disgusting habits(remember the previously mentioned junkyard lineage), Rosy was quite alert and certainly intelligent.  Yes, the potential for a great agility dog was there.  The problem.  Rosy was six years old when my son decided to train her.  That’s forty-two years to you and me.

My son was persistent in his pleas, and we located a good school that was close to our home.  Proximity was important because Rosy was a very anxious traveler.  This was understandable since her only car trips resulted in multiple pricks and prods, humiliating explorations of every conceivable orifice (at the vet’s office) and the drenching, soaking, and clipping noise contraptions blowing hot air (at the pet groomer’s).  If those unpleasant events had greeted me after every road trip, I might need heavy sedation during car trips, as well.

We finally got Rosy enrolled in Beginner Obedience Training (the first step in the long journey toward agility).  And, we would soon find out if it’s possible to teach an old dog new tricks.  Our first class, the teacher recommended a pronged-collar for Rosy, since even my rather large husband could barely control her during walks.  We were assured that this collar did not actually hurt Rosy, but rather gets her attention for training purposes.  So, Rosy was fitted for a pronged-collar (which did, in fact, get her attention almost immediately).  We were also told to bring plenty of treats for her training.

The first class was awful.  Since my son was not yet eighteen, I had to stay outside the perimeter of the training ring, for insurance purposes.  Rosy and I go way back.  My son was only ten years old when we got Rosy, so I was the one who “raised” her.  I fed her, potty-trained her, and we ended up being roommates, even sharing a bed.  So, our bond goes way back and runs deep.  My son’s desire to train Rosy, however sincere, was only recent.  Prior to this training experience, Rosy had seen him as more of a playmate.  So, the transition from playmates to teacher and student was going to be tough, if not impossible, on everyone.

So, this first class was a bust.  Rosy whined and paced the whole class period, and kept looking over to me every five seconds, in hopes of a rescue, that was never coming.  And, I must admit, it was hard sitting idly, trying to remain nonchalant while my “baby” was being jerked around and chastised.  But, I began to notice something rather remarkable.  It was working.  Rosy was beginning to respond to my son’s commands.  The teacher brought in her dogs, who were extremely impressive and well-trained, of course.  Watching her work so well with her dogs, gave us hope and a vision that perhaps with persistence, hard work, and a little luck, our dog, too, could be one of those dogs receiving admiring glances from other envious dog owners.

But first, some of the dynamics in our home involving Rosy’s care would have to change in order for success to be possible.  First, my son would have to be Rosy’s primary caregiver.  He would need to start feeding Rosy.  Wow!  This would indeed be a monumental change in our normal routine.  I had not only been feeding her, but I even made Rosy homemade food.  This would be the second change.  My food, along with the indiscriminate tidbits of food which “happened” to drop from my husband’s plate, would, of course, have to stop.  The teacher mentioned Rosy’s girth (See my earlier post, Leftovers: Chicken Ala Compost Heap) confirmed by a subsequent vet visit.  Rosy was definitely overweight.

So, Rosy and my son began working together almost every day.  I’d try peeking out the patio curtain, so as not to distract the “master” at work.  I was amazed.  My son was giving Rosy commands, and she was following them.  It was a beautiful thing to witness their teamwork.  Both of them focused on the same goal–working together.  Before long, my son would take Rosy for walks around the neighborhood.  A truly amazing feat in itself, since prior to obedience training, Rosy was affectionately referred to by some of our neighbors as “Taz”, short for Tasmanian Devil–completely appropriate given her behavior prior to training.

Now, however, my son and Rosy are poetry in motion.  Rosy, walking perfectly aligned by my son’s side.  Stopping when he stops.  Waiting until the moment he admonishes her with a quick “let’s go” and their off again, on their astonishingly peaceful sojourn around the block.  What a triumph for both of them.  That my son can actually walk Rosy around our neighborhood without fear of Rosy going AWOL or being charged with disturbing the peace.

Yes, this was indeed progress.  My son proudly reported that they had strolled calmly past a busy garage sale and an unsuspecting patron had remarked what a lovely dog Rosy was.  It made my son proud, and it made me proud when he told me the story.  Proud of both of them–my teenage son who had gladly, and somewhat naively, taken on the responsibility of training our middle-aged, heretofore, stubborn female border collie mix dog in hopes of some day competing in agility.

Which brings me back to the graduation ceremony.  When my son accepted the Certificate for Beginner Obedience Training, it was a very proud moment for all of us, especially for Rosy.  This experience taught my son to be more responsible, our dog more adaptable, and me to believe in miracles.  It’s been awhile since Rosy’s training.  Since then, my son’s gone on to college, and I tend to be the one caring for “my girl” these days.  Because of my son’s hard work during training, though, I’m able to walk Rosy around the neighborhood.  Eleven years old, Rosy has yet to appear on Animal Planet, though, we did see a dog show recently, and one of the stars was a twelve year old dog, so, who knows.  But, even if she never competes, Rosy and my son are already winners in my book.  Apparently and amazingly, you can teach a young man responsibility, and maybe even teach an old dog new tricks.

Trial by Fire

Awww, I hate these hot flashes!!!
Awww, I hate these hot flashes!!! (Photo credit: jinterwas)

At 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit, clay turns into fine china, carbon dioxide turns into diamonds, and, give or take a few degrees,  middle-aged women, like me, turn into human microwaves, just shy of spontaneous combustion.  Welcome to the wonderfully warm world of hot flashes, ladies!

Even before menopause,  I was entrenched in an offensive known in our home as the “Great Thermostat Battle”.  Always chilly, I would sneak stealthily down the hall and,  with a magician’s slight-of-hand, turn the thermostat up to a more balmy level.   Meanwhile, my hottie husband, displaying less finesse but more bravado, followed closely behind, turning the dial down,  to a temperature only a popsicle could love.  Naturally, now that I’m in meltdown mode, my hubby’s cooling off, so, the battle continues.  Peace talks are, however, ongoing.  You don’t stay married for as  long as we have without them.

In order to win this “Cold War”, I’m determined to embrace my hotness, go with the flow, even if it is a lava flow, and, like carbon dioxide, become the precious and sparkling gem God created me to be.  Approaching life with grace, humor, and a great air conditioner, I can beat this heat.  Besides, there’s nothing hotter than a woman who’s comfortable in her own skin, whatever the temperature.  And, that’s pretty cool.