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Hall-uh-ween

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Fall is my favorite season, and Halloween my favorite holiday. But this year, I haven’t been feeling overly festive. Today is Halloween, and there isn’t a single decoration outside. Well, except for the pumpkins, which were carved with limited enthusiasm.

We’re all feeling a bit un-fallish this year, I guess. Youngest went off to school today — his last elementary school Halloween — with no costume. Partly because he said, “I don’t really care” and partly because it’s not actually done yet. I felt like The. Worst. Mom. Although he was all, “There are kids in my class that don’t dress up because of their religion.” Maybe it was a show of solidarity?

So why have I become the Grinch of Fall? Well, the weather went from screaming hot to iceberg cold without that happy medium I love so much — you know when there’s the tiniest bit of chill in the air, just enough to have to wear a jacket, but not enough to shiver. One of my exes coined a phrase in the 90’s that describes it perfectly: “I love it when you can see your breath and wear flannels.” (Ah… flannel shirts… can we bring them back please? I loved pairing a nice pair of second hand men’s jeans with an oversized t-shirt and plaid flannel button down.)

The rainy cold — it’s too miserable to go to a pumpkin patch/get lost in a corn maze/take our annual trip to Ellicottville where we climb between trees and ride the mountain coaster over and over until my son gets tired of me screaming in his ears — has been a serious bummer. My favorite thing to do in fall is walk through the woods and listen to the crunch of newly fallen leaves, to breathe deeply, to appreciate the way things slow down and die off in preparation for winter. Not only have we missed out on family fun, I haven’t had much quality leaf crunching time.

The other big difference this year is our lack of house spirit. We’ve earned a bit of a reputation in the neighborhood for being the scariest house around. What started as a string of motion sensored Mike Myers lights and a zombie costume stuffed with leaves morphed into THE TUNNEL OF TERROR, a covered entrance to our porch full of scary decorations and grown men in costume jump scaring small children. (We had our babysitter help pass out candy at the entrance for those too young/too scared to go in.)

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2015 Tunnel of Terror

It was EPIC.

It was also a ton of work and involved very labor intensive set-up and take-down, which often occurred in the wind and rain. Hubs actually took the day off last year to set up — shame on you, Halloween, for happening in the middle of the week! After a paltry showing of trick-or-treaters last year (I guess there is such a thing as “too scary”) and a muddy and miserable take-down, hubs decided to take this year off. Also, it’s Wednesday. Halloween obviously did not get my “stop happening on weekdays” memo.

I can’t lie, it’s been nice not having the front windows blacked out and a non-stop sea of leaves traveling into the house. But it’s also sad. Kids on the bus were asking youngest when we were putting up the tunnel. And my damn Facebook memories keep popping up with pictures and videos from past years. Hubs still plans to dress up and scare the neighborhood, but he said any decorations are up to me. It’s raining. Again. And I still have a Halloween costume to make.

Which brings me to my last bit of melancholy. I love dressing up in costume. Putting on a different persona for a night and letting go of all the day to day mundane. In past years, hubs and I have acted in murder mystery dinners, went on Halloween wine tours, and gone to themed dance parties. This year? Nothing. It’s my own fault, really. I could have pushed the issue. Got tickets to an event and dragged him along or gone by myself. I could have randomly shown up at work in costume just to see what would happen.

Halloween isn’t over yet, despite the fact that two days ago I couldn’t find a single piece of candy corn among the rows of Christmas candy. Hopefully the rain will stop and I’ll find the motivation to pull out some yard decorations. Perhaps I’ll put a quick costume together for tonight’s trick-or-treating. Blast some 90’s dark wave music to help get things in the mood.

And there’s still hope for fall. This is Buffalo, after all. She likes to keep things interesting.

Weekend retreat

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The idea of coming together with other writers — some friends, some strangers — for an entire weekend away from the stressful realities of life felt both exhilarating and terrifying. It is something I need: space to think, to read, to write, without distractions and in a place that promised inspiring scenery. At home, I try to carve out time to write but there is always something else that pulls at my attention. The house, the cat, the never ending list of things I should be doing. At a retreat, there will be peer pressure. I will be forced to sit and write.

I will also be anxious. Anxious about the unknown, the societal expectations of such things, the way my brain doesn’t always filter what exits my mouth. The pressure to produce something wonderful, something that will make the trip worthwhile.

I drove down with a local friend, and hurray, we only had to turn around once. There were five other women there, three I know from the Pennwriters conference and two I met upon arrival. Everyone was nice. Our porch had a view of a beautiful lake, and we sat and enjoyed complimentary cottage wine.

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Sunset wine. Photo inspired by my Lake O cottage neighbor, Phil

We shared a wonderful meal together. Eventually, I heard the nag in my head asking for a break. People don’t always believe I’m an introvert. They see me stand in front of crowds, comfortable in theatrical performance. That’s the thing: it’s theater. It’s me putting on another persona, someone confident and in control of her speech and surroundings. It’s not small talk with others, deciding what to reveal about who I am and what I believe. I’d rather tell stories, sing repeat after me songs off-key, explain the way something works. Otherwise I’ll just listen if that’s okay.

And it usually is. For a while. Then I need to be alone and in the quiet. And the great thing about other writers is that they get that, they understand. Most of us are introverted or at least need to go into that space of stillness and quiet in order to tune into the stories in our heads.

I slept, more or less. As much as one can in a strange place with unusual noises (like a toilet grinder that sounded like an angry monster) and light coming in from under the doorway. I missed the sound of my husband’s breath and the feel of a cat at my feet. It was lonely. But in the morning we woke to coffee and pumpkin bread and the stillness of the lake. The air was cold and full of fall. I wrote, I read, I took a walk in the woods with my friend. We climbed into a tree stand and talked to chipmunks. I felt relaxed for the first time in weeks.

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Findley Lake

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Took a lovely hike just beyond this outhouse

We gathered in the common area and wrote, a collective of creative energy. I worried about my story but tried to let the words flow without judgement. When we weren’t writing, we talked and laughed and ate amazing food. A group of us went on a mini adventure and embraced the idea of taking the time to do what makes you happy. I am thankful for that time, for the beautiful place, for a family that supports my passion and gives me space to pursue it.

I am thankful for other writers who are not afraid to share in their vulnerability. We are all on our own journeys, yet we are all committed to words, and I love how that bonds us. Love that I can spend the weekend with people other than my family and feel safe and comfortable.

Bonus: amazing food

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Pasta with pumpkin sauce, sauted mushrooms and onions, ratatouille with vegan mozzarella, and homemade herb focaccia. YUM.

Summer book report

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Ah, the lazy days of summer, the perfect time to curl up in the sun on your favorite lounge chair and get lost in the pages of a good book. I’ll admit there weren’t nearly enough of those moments this past summer, but I managed to devour a handful of delicious reads. Here are a few of my faves:

Pax by Sarah Pennypacker
Youngest and I began this audio book on a nearly hour long trip to one of his soccer games. We were immediately hooked. Normally I’d continue listening alone, but he felt strongly that I wait for him to be in the car so that we could listen together. It killed me, but I love my boy and love that we had something to share. After we finished, he asked to borrow the CDs so that he could play them in his bedroom before he went to sleep. Hopefully there weren’t subliminal messages contained within because I’m relatively certain he listened to the book another four or five times. Pax tells the story of a boy and his abandoned fox, and it is beautiful and heartbreaking. I strongly recommend it for children (those able handle the painful themes of war, death, and loss) and adults alike.

The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin
Another excellent audio book, this one listened to during my work commute. It is a must for bibliophiles and those who enjoy rich character development. Somewhat of a spoiler alert (although the reason I stumbled upon this book in the first place) — there is an adoption story line that I felt the author handled well. I’m always on the lookout for books that take on foster care and adoption from a somewhat unique perspective, books that aren’t simply about a child searching for his/her birth parents but one that embraces the uniqueness of a family created not out of blood.

I’ve renewed my commitment to reading more with my boys at bedtime. Sometimes when life gets crazy we let that slip, but it is such a wonderful time to bond and explore literature together, especially with my twelve-year-old, who has entered the “Don’t mind me I’m just going to lock myself in my bedroom and watch YouTube videos all night” phase. We finished Postcards from Venice by the fabulous Dee Romito. It is a follow-up (but can be read alone) to her debut, The BFF Bucket List and equally sweet. Then we read one of my childhood favorites, and a must read for all those in the throes of adolescence, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. We laughed until our sides hurt at the part, “You must, you must…” (especially after I told him that yes, my sister taught me that chant when I was his age and I may have believed it could work. It didn’t. Also, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, well, then I guess you need to go read the book.)

Youngest and I read the third book in Todd McClimans’ American Epochs series, A Time to Heal. I recommend the series for elementary-middle schoolers who enjoy history and adventure. Then we read Project Mulberry by Linda Sue Park and are now about halfway through White Fang by Jack London. He saw the preview for a movie version on Netflix and we decided to read the book first (because you should ALWAYS read the book first). I’ve never read it before and perhaps should have given pause when I found it in the YA section of the library instead of juvenile. It is a wonderfully crafted book, but the language is a bit high for him and the content rather intense. We stop after particularly rough scenes to discuss them, and I’ve been using it as a way to teach difficult vocabulary in context as well as reading comprehension. Oh, the teacher in me.

A few other recommendations from my summer reading pile:

The Girl Before by Rena Olsen. Had a very Lifetime TV movie feel and was the perfect escape book for a day at the lake. (Warning: it does deal with a disturbing concept that may be difficult for some readers)

Every Little Bad Idea by Caitie McKay. Debut verse novel by my friend and editor. A wonderful book aimed at struggling readers that would appeal to teens experiencing first love (or those of us who remember our first love!)

If I Was Your Girl by Meredith Russo. Very well done book about a trans-girl trying to find her place.

I am still over two years behind on my TBR list, a list that is constantly growing because there are so many wonderful books out there! Fall is the only time of year when we have a reprieve from soccer, but scouts is in full swing, and hubby and I are both very active on the committee. Translation: time I could be reading and/or writing is spent organizing spreadsheets, planning activities, and sending emails. Alas, I love being involved in my sons’ lives and know that it will all end one day when they leave the nest.

(Of course I totally plan on being like the mom in I’ll Love You Forever and sneaking into their houses to read to them.)

Time for an upgrade?

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Twenty years.

That’s how long it’s been since I graduated from college. My reunion was this past weekend, and I decided to skip all the formal stuff and attend the free, kid-friendly Fall Fest with my boys. Last year we went with my sister (graduate school, class of ’08) but she had a race this year and couldn’t make it. The boys and I still had fun playing games and winning swag. I ran into one person I knew from school, someone who I had, ironically, ran into for the first time since Rhetoric I this past summer. “Two times in one year,” she said laughing, and then went off to deal with her kiddos while I chased after mine.

Later, the boys and I went on a tour of the campus, which has changed dramatically in the past twenty years thanks to a large land purchase from neighboring nuns, an even larger pile of donation money from a local billionaire, and a dramatic increase in tuition rates. “Sorry, boys,” I said when our tour guide told us the current cost of attendance. “This is a great school, but you’d be in debt forever.” I spent the rest of the tour jealous of the amazing new dorms and apartments, the shiny new academic buildings, and the general youthfulness that surrounded us.

I felt old.

Youngest proudly announced that I hadn’t been there in twenty years, and I started far too many sentences with, “I remember when…” Yep. I have officially hit the stage of my life when sentences begin with a wistful phrase of nostalgia.

My favorite library turned 50 this year. I remember what it looked like in its infancy. Checkout table near the door where the librarian would stamp your due date cards; I would dutifully open all the books up to the back and stack them neatly on top of one another. Card catalog that took up most of the center area, an area now occupied by computers. Colorful rugs in the children’s section where I sat curled up with a tower of picture books way, way, way back when in the early 80’s.

Really old.

Today I reached the pinnacle of feeling like a curmudgeon. Sadly, my one and only smart phone that I have had since 2014 is starting to, for lack of a better word, decompose. The battery drains rapidly, and just yesterday I discovered that all of my photos disappeared. I try to dump pictures onto my laptop every few months, but it had been a while. And no, I didn’t back them up on the cloud. They are gone. Poof. Depressed but mildly hopeful, I went to the phone store that shall not be named and prayed that someone would be able to help me recover my pictures.

It went down a bit like this:

Me: So my phone battery has been draining quickly and I’ve been trying to fix it and somehow now my SD card is messed up and all my pictures are gone.

Much younger worker guy: What is this? An S7? (scoff)

Me: Haha, no it’s an S4.

Guy: (not even trying to hide the scornful look on his face) Did you back them up with Google photo? (rapidly flips through screens to try and locate my missing memories)

Me: Uh, no.

Guy: Well, your phone is old. This kind of stuff happens. (secretly cackling at the prospect of his upcoming commission upon new phone sale)

This kind of stuff happens to old things. I am an old thing. My battery life is draining and sometimes the memories in my gallery fade and may eventually disappear if I don’t back them up. (THIS IS WHY I BLOG, PEOPLE)

My alma mater and favorite library have experienced a lot of upgrades over the years, and it’s only a matter of time before I have to give in and buy a new phone. And I suppose I’ve tried to upgrade myself too, albeit kicking and screaming. Friends and family know how obsessed I am with the 80’s, particularly 80’s music. And my boys know how much I love to talk about the “good ol days”. (insert eye roll) They patiently followed me around campus as I swooned in waves of nostalgia.

The thing is, I like it that way. I live in the now because I’m forced to, but if I could trade streaming music for mixed tapes, I would. If I could throw away my phone and not be connected 24-7, I would. Every generation has something they long to hold onto, and us Gen X-ers are no exception. (Why else would so many modern TV shows and movies pay homage to the best decade ever?)

So, no, Mr. Young Hip Phone Guy, I won’t be helping you earn a big commission today. I’ll figure out a way to make my sad 2014 phone work for a bit longer, thank you.