Red Nose

Boo!

It's raining a bit -- just like it did every Halloween when I was a kid, or so it seemed. It's almost 8:30 pm and we have had a grand total of six kids come to the door. That's a far cry from a few years ago, when the candy flowed nonstop. I'm not sure if it's the rain, our pumpkin-less doorstep, or a decline in the tradition.

Could a little of all of them, I suppose.

When I was kid, Halloween was definitely a nighttime activity. We got home from school and promptly began preparing for the big score. There were lots of kids in my neighborhood and plenty of homes to hit. Mom took the opportunity to make stew for dinner and insisted that we eat before the festivities began.

Stew. Ugh. I hated it. It was the only night of the WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR that Mom made stew and made us eat it. But we did, or we didn't get to go raid the neighborhood and divest the neighbors of candy.

Off we went, up down one side of the street and up the other, from the railroad tracks on one end to the graveyard on the other. When we got a bit older, we headed for the Apartments -- a small enclave of townhomes in back of our immediate neighborhood. Lots of homes equals lots of candy in our paper bags.

And not only candy, either; we also got homemade cookies, popcorn balls, and even tiny loaves of bread. The candy was full-size too; none of this "snack size" nonsense! We didn't worry about poisoned treats or sabotaged apples, although we'd heard the horror stories of needles in candy bars and razor blades in apples.

Of course the real fun started when we got home. My sister and I got to stay up late because November 1st was always a holiday. (In the Catlick Choich, All Saints' Day was a Holy Day of Obligation and we had to go to Mass. A small price to pay for no school.) We emptied out our bags and the hard bargaining began. Five pieces of Double Bubble for one Clark bar; two Hershey bars for a Mounds and an Almond Joy. You take those nasty cookies and I'll take your licorice.

It was great!

Anyway, I'm a little disappointed with the low turnout. I do enjoy seeing the spacemen and mini-monsters, the princesses and the superheroes. Then again, more candy for me!

Happy Halloween!

Loving Learning

Lately I've been working on a project that started with because I read about how to use PowerPoint to create branched scenarios. I thought I might be able to apply the technique to a course I was developing, so I kind of jumped right in and explored and tried different things and finally learned how to do it.

Oh, I can already hear you snoring, but bear with me.

This was fun for me. I love figuring that stuff out.

Several years ago, I took the Strengths Finder test from Now, Discover Your Strengths by Marcus Buckingham. You answer a bunch of questions, click Submit, and receive your four main strengths. One of mine is Learner.

Huh. Makes sense.

I've always thought that if I ever won the lottery, if there was ever a time when I didn't have to earn a living, I'd go back to school.

Oh, I wouldn't go back to earn a specific degree or certification or anything like that. I'd go back to school to learn whatever struck my fancy. Courses in writing, or storytelling, or legends and myths. (One of my favorite courses in college was "Arthurian Legend.") I once took a course called "Cosmic Evolution" to fulfill a science requirement; it turned out to be pretty fascinating. I'd probably delve into history, or art, or even mechanical things -- wood shop!

I'd audit all these courses or take them pass/fail, because I don't want the pressure of exams hanging over my head. I just want to learn what interests me, to jump the rabbit hole and see where it takes me without having to worry about grades or GPAs or credits. In fact, if I started taking a course and didn't like it for whatever reason, I'd just drop the course and find another one.

If I managed to qualify for a degree, great. If not, no problem.

I want to be like a woman I met through STC. Lottie Applewhite (isn't that a fabulous name?) was old when I met her years ago. Lottie's from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and has the most gorgeous southern accent. At the 1998 conference, I had breakfast with her; she must have been in her 70s at the time. I asked her what she had been up to lately.

"Well Mary, Ah just earned mah fifth mastuh's degree!"

"Fifth master's degree! How'd you do that, Lottie?" I replied in amazement.

"Well, Ah jest keep takin' courses at the universuhty, and every once in a while they give me anothuh degree!" she said.

I want to be her. Someday I will.

Yet Another Damn Post About Woodstock

I was 17 in August of 1969, heading into my senior year of high school, when I saw an ad for a music and arts festival up in New York. I immediately started lobbying my Mom to see if she would let me go.

I mean -- the lineup was stellar! Jimi, Janis, Country Joe, John Sebastian, the Dead! I'd even bear up under Joan Baez to see CSN&Y, The Band, and Blood Sweat and Tears.

Mom was not easily convinced. I'd never driven that far before -- over five hours from home. The farthest I'd ever driven was Ocean City, and even then Mom or Pop was in the car too. I kept pitching it, though -- it would be so much fun for my sister and me! We could camp! It would be educational!

I almost managed to wear her down, but she was just a little too leery of letting us take her car and go all the way to upstate New York all by ourselves.

So she talked to Pop and suggested that he might take us to the festival. He might like to go camping with his daughters, wouldn't he?

Pop inquired politely whether Mom had gone and lost her mind.

So much for that!

A week or so later we packed our bags and headed off for our usual two-week family vacation in Ocean City. On Sunday, August 17th, Pop went out to pick up the Sunday paper. He came into the kitchen of our rented cottage and plopped the paper down on the counter. There was the headline:

400,000 Jam Rock Festival in Catskills

Smack dab on the front page was a huge photo of a sea of naked, mudcaked, stoned hippies.

"Take a look at this!" he said to Mom. "THIS is what you wanted me to take your daughters to!"

After Mom and Pop finished recoiling in horror, I looked at the picture.

"Damn," I thought, "I shoulda hitchhiked!"

When Good Desserts Go Bad

Years ago, my parents were about to celebrate their 56th wedding anniversary. My Pop was frail, wheelchair bound; my mom was his caregiver. We kids decided to have a nice dinner at their home, recreating our many Sunday dinners: standing rib roast with onions and tomatoes, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, and dessert.

I volunteered to make the dessert.

I was doing one of many incarnations of Weight Watchers at the time, so I opted to make a dessert from one of my many Weight Watchers cookbooks. That way Pop could have some dessert (as if his eating a low-calorie, sugarless dessert would do any good at that point) and I could stay on my diet (more or less -- mostly less).

As is my wont, I put off selecting a recipe until the early afternoon before the dinner, so I had to find something that used ingredients that I already had. I figured I had hit pay dirt when I found a recipe for Apricot Fudge Torte.

It sounded great -- fruity, chocolatey, torte-y... perfect! I started mixing.

And substituting, because halfway through I realized that I really didn't have exactly the same ingredients that were called for in the recipe. More or less close, though. I don't really remember what I substituted for what (I have successfully repressed that part), but I do know that it came out looking and smelling decent. So I wrapped it up and off we went.

Dinner was lovely. The roast was perfectly done, just this side of rare, with the onions and tomatoes enhancing the flavor. Everything else was delightful, too.

Time for coffee and dessert! I sliced up the torte, giving everyone a generous slice, and served it with a smile.

Everyone took a bite.

My brother gagged. My mother's face kind of wrinkled up; Joe's eyes widened and he looked at me with dismay. Everyone else kind of pursed their lips together and paused.

"I hate to tell you this," my brother said, "but this thing is terrible!" My sisters agreed with him.

My brother-in-law choked down another bite. "Oh, I think it's okay," he said, clearly lying through his teeth.

I took my first bite and looked right at my brother-in-law. After being so nice, he did not deserve to suffer.

"They're right," I said. "It's awful." He put down his fork in relief.

How awful was it? Pretty damned awful. It was dry. It was bitter. It was not chocolate-y; it was chemical-y. It was a disaster. I consigned the rest of the torte to the trash.

The Apricot Fudge Torte is now one of the family legends. Every time we eat out at as a family, I get to live it down. Every time we get together for a pot-luck, I threaten to bring one.

Apricot Fudge Torte... my mouth waters just thinking of it.

Then I spit. And have some ice cream.

And Counting

People ask how we met -- I was dating his best friend.

People ask about our first date -- beer and pizza at a Capitol Hill joint long since gone.

People ask how I "knew" -- We'd been dating six weeks. We were lying in bed and he started laughing. I asked what was funny and he said, "I can't tell you yet." Just like that, I knew he was going to ask me to marry him; just like that, I knew I'd say yes.

People ask how he proposed -- We were at my company party, enjoying the complimentary refreshing beverages. He said, "Do you want to grow old with me?" I, thinking he was just being romantic, said, "Yes, I do." He said, "I knew you'd look good with a ring on your finger." I suddenly realized that he had proposed and I had accepted!

People ask about our honeymoon -- We went to Ocean City and stayed in my parent's condo. We trolled for a restaurant and ended up at a Mexican joint. We had to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room, because the twin beds in the bedrooms just would not do.

Happy 29th Anniversary, Joe!

---

PS - The lovely and talented Kate and the lovely and talented Deb got it right. Beach tips 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, and 9 are all true -- thank you SonnyeBoy!

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I Still Need A Spellchecker, Though

Congratulations to the winner of the National Spelling Bee!

I'm fond of the spelling bee kids. I really am, because I was one.

I've always been a good speller. Even in grade school I used to kick at in the classroom spelling bees. Once, when I was in third or maybe fourth grade, won the classroom bee and progressed to the school bee. The principal, Sister Donelda, called the words. At one point, my word was "boulevard." I spelled it correctly. Sister paused, then said, "Very good!" I was the only kid who rated that praise; I think it was because I was so young and it was a tricky word.

Even though I didn't go much further in that bee, I was inordinately proud of that.

Fast forward to the fifth grade classroom bee. I was in line, waiting waiting waiting for my word. The teacher called it out -- "endeavor." It wasn't my turn; in fact, three kids were ahead of me. One by one, each kid misspelled the word -- "indevor," "endever," endevver." I was grinning from ear to ear, because dammit! I knew how to spell that word! Finally, my turn to spell the word. I got it right!

Unfortunately, I think I got the next word wrong, but that was okay with me. I showed 'em on "endeavor."

Fast forward to sixth grade. I don't quite remember how, but I qualified for the Archdiocese bee! I practiced and practiced and practiced, memorizing long lists of arcane words, recruiting my Gramma and my Mom and my Pop to call out the words for me to spell, word after word after word. I knew all of the trick words, the ones with silent letters and odd combinations of "psy" and "tch" and "ian" versus "ien" and on and on and on.

When the day came, I sat up on the stage at Our Lady of Lourdes school with all of the other winners, completely confident in my spelling prowess. My first word? "Penitentiary."

I knew that one backwards and forwards. It was one of the trick words -- that "tiary" would fool you every time.

I spoke into the microphone.

P-E-N-E-T-E-N-T-I-A-R-Y

Ding!

I was so embarrassed. I'd blown it!! I was concentrating so hard on the "tiary" that I misspelled the first part. Oh, the shame!

My Pop was sympathetic, though. He said I should have just spelled it J-A-I-L.

The next year, I again qualified for the Archdiocese bee, but there was a conflict. On the same day as the spelling bee, I was to receive the Marian Medal, an award for Catholic Girl Scouts. I wanted to get that medal pinned on my green badge sash much more than I wanted to get humiliated at the spelling bee, so I told Sister Cecilius. She was badly disappointed, but couldn't say too much about it because it was, after all, a Catholic award.

So she entered me in the DC Spelling Bee.

Oh. My. God. This was a big deal -- kids from all over the DC metropolitan area would be spelling! I practiced harder than ever, memorizing whole books of spelling words, driving my parents and siblings nuts with the spelling, always the spelling!

The bee, as I recall, was held at Constitution Hall. I remember it being just huge to me. I wore a big paper number on my chest and sat on stage, so nervous.

I made it through the first round. Kid after kid got the dreaded ding. I made it through the second round. More kids got dinged. Third round -- still going, no dinging.

I don't remember how many rounds I lasted, but about halfway through I finally met my Waterloo with the word "deprecate." I spelled "depricate."

I got escorted backstage, where my parents met me. I wasn't really disappointed; just relieved that I had made it as far as I did. Halfway -- a respectable showing. One of the grownups in charge asked my name, marked down my progress, and handed me my consolation prize: a Parker pen and a five dollar bill.

Better than a trip to the P-E-N-I-T-E-N-T-I-A-R-Y!

A Sunday Drive

O Spring!

Today was lovely, just lovely -- sunny and bright, with a cool breeze blowing, the kind of cool that doesn't bite. Time for a drive!

We took off westward, up to Frederick Maryland, in search of pizza. Alas, the restaurant we were headed for had changed its name and had the temerity to be closed! So... we walked into the center of town, the perfect solution on such a day. We stopped at a brew pub, got our pizza, and then paid our respects to Joe's Uncle Kirk, the subject of this amazing painting.

Yeah, that's Uncle Kirk, portrayed as an angel. Here's a closer look.

Earthbound, by William Cochran and Paul F. Wilson

Here's the kicker -- the whole window, the shutters, the ledge, the arch over the window are all part of the painting. It's a charming example of trompe l'oeil painting.

Kirk was quite a character. He was a Marine during World War II, flying Corsairs in the Pacific theater. After the war, he was a bartender, a bookie, a numbers game operator, and who knows what else. Kirk and my father-in-law started a restaurant in DC called The Good Guys, which they later sold after they realized that you should never start a business with family. (The joint's still around, but now it's titty bar. Great claim to fame, eh?)

Anyway, long after Kirk retired, he was driving down Route 15 when he realized someone was trying to get him to pull over. He sped up instead, but the guy behind him was pretty insistent, matching his speed and almost forcing Kirk off the road. Kirk finally pulled over, and then grabbed his peacekeeper from under the driver's seat as the other guy came up to the window.

Turns out it was the portrait artist, Paul F. Wilson, who was working with William Cochran, an expert trompe l'oeil artist who was working on a series of murals in Frederick. Mr. Wilson saw Kirk and knew that, with his flowing white hair and goatee, Kirk was the perfect model.

So Kirk, who was devil-may-care in life, became immortalized as an earthbound angel.

When Is A Dream More Than A Dream?

My Pop died in 1990 in the middle of the night, so I did not get a chance to tell him goodbye or to say "I love you" to him.

A few nights after the funeral, I had a vivid dream. He and I were sitting in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. He was dressed in one of his good suits. He was portly and healthy, the way I remember him best.

I said to him, "Pop! But you're dead!"

And he said to me, "Yes, and I have to go now."

And I said, "I love you, Pop."

And he said, "I love you, too."

And with that, the chair he was sitting turned into a coffin and I woke up.

When is a dream more than a dream?

A few years later -- maybe five? -- my mom got very sick with an intestinal virus and had to spend a week in the hospital. While she was there, I had another vivid dream.

Pop was just standing there, in some indeterminate place, dressed in his old sweater and holding a newspaper. Somehow I knew he was doing the crossword puzzle; it was one of his favorite things to do.

He said to me, "Is your mother going to be all right?"

And I said, "Yes, she's going to be fine. She's just dehydrated."

And he said, "Well, that's good then. I was worried about her."

And with that, he disappeared and I woke up.

When is a dream more than a dream?

Last week, I had a third vivid dream.

My sister and I were walking toward the assisted living home where Mom lives now, only the whole surrounding area had been developed and built up. It was kind of like Ocean City, but it wasn't. As we were walking, Pop came up to us. Once again, he was dressed in his favorite old sweater, his glasses perched on his nose. He was determined and strong.

And he said to me, "Where's this place where your mother's living?"

And I said, "It's right up the street; we're going there now."

And he said, "I'm coming to get her out of there. She can't stay there anymore."

And then the dream thinned out and I woke up, cold all over.

I called Mom the next day. She was fine; she'd just come back from bingo where she won eight games. I saw her on Saturday and she was fine, looking forward to the month's activities and entertainment.

But...

When is a dream more than a dream?

Mirror, Mirror...

I've spent a little while in last week or so catching up with Friday Night Lights, my current favorite TV show. For those of you don't know this show, it's a show about high school football in a small Texas town.

Except... not really. I mean, football -- especially the high school variety and especially the small-town Texas variety -- is the center around which the story is woven.

I love the writing this season. And the actors are amazing, even the young ones. The way they breathe life into the characters is just right, especially in the little scenes that almost seem like throwaways.

Here's the scene that totally got to me in the latest episode.

Julie, the coach's daughter, gets back together with her first boyfriend, Matt, who has just been demoted from starting quarterback to backup quarterback. They go to the lake to spend the day. They have both been tentative about getting back together. As they sit beside the lake in front of a fire with the evening coming on, they finally surrender to each other.

Cut to next morning. Matt drops Julie off at her house. She goes into the bathroom and...

She stares at herself in the mirror. Just stares; then smiles, and her eyes go soft. She lingers for just a few seconds, looking at her changed self, and then the scene changes and the show continues. It's really a lovely little moment.

So, I hear you cry, why did that scene affect you so?

Well, I'll tell you.

That scene brought a shock of recognition for me. I clearly remember, as if it was last night, looking at my 18-year old self in the mirror the morning after I lost -- okay, "gave away" is a more accurate phrase -- my virginity. It's like I wanted to see if "it" showed; if it was obvious. I needed to look into my own eyes and see -- if I regretted it? I really don't know. But I remember thinking, "Well, you're not a virgin anymore!" Happily, I was able to smile, too.

What's really interesting to me is that as I scanned the FNL forums on TWOP, a fair number of posts said exactly the same thing: that girls always look in the mirror after they first have sex. I wonder, though, if it's limited to girls.

So I ask you: Did you look in the mirror?

My Roman Holiday

The lovely and talented Nichol asked about Item 8 in the Random Things list.

Yes, it's true! Let me elaborate.

When I was 15, I went on a trip to France with several other girls from my class. Our French teacher, Miss Lewis, was our chaperone. It was a six-week study tour; we spent three weeks just outside of Paris (Orsay, actually) and three weeks in Juan-les-Pins, on the French Riviera.

We were part of a much larger group, perhaps a dozen or so small chaperoned groups like ours, both boys and girls. We spent the mornings in French class and the afternoons touring.

It was great, of course -- especially the weekend we went to Rome with Miss Lewis.

Miss Lewis was 26, impossibly fashionable and sophisticated. She was fluent in French, having studied at the Sorbonne, and -- the important part -- she had a Roman boyfriend, named Mario. She arranged this little side trip so that she could spend the weekend with him. She booked us rooms at a little hotel, the Albergo Cesari, and proceeded to let us wander all over the ancient city while she wandered all over Mario.

She kept an eye on us, though. We had a group tour of the Vatican and the Roman Forum, the Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon and the Catacombs. In the evening, she arranged for Mario to gather his buddies to help entertain us.

That's how I met Luigi. I don't really remember that much about him, other than that he was handsome and seemed extremely worldly to me. He was older than I, probably as old as 20! I do remember a party in an apartment, where I finally succumbed to Luigi's overtures and we necked for what seemed like hours.

It probably wasn't nearly that long, and it never went past kissing (because I wouldn't let it, silly Catholic girl that I was). We parted with promises of undying love, or at least undying like. We wrote to each other for a couple of months before it just sort of fizzled out naturally.

And yes, that's where I first tasted espresso. Now that was a love affair that lasted!