Category life

Hall-uh-ween

caravanofcomposition 2 Comments

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.

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.

Cub scout camping fun and a book cover hint

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vans at sea

Look at us! We’re in boats and not tipping over or rowing into the swimming area! If you have no idea what I’m talking about, stop, go read Row, row, row your boat…, and then come back here to finish reading this post.

I’ll wait.

This past weekend was our third trip to cub scout summer camp and the first time boat-incident free. Yay us! The boys had a blast (oldest tagged along as Den Chief), the weather turned out much better than the Wednesday afternoon predictions that had me packing all the rain gear, and I walked over 32 miles in four days. It felt great to be in nature, to hang out with friends, and to watch my boys do the things they love.

Some of you may know that starting next month, girls will be allowed to join cub scouts  and in February will be able to join boy scouts (which, going forward will be known as BSA) and start on the path toward Eagle. At camp’s closing ceremony, the director mentioned how there will be girls at camp next year, and no matter how we feel about it, we need to accept the changes and support them in their journey.

I was active in girl scouts from first grade through high school. I quit because A) it became uncool to be in scouts and our troop shrank to practically zero members and B) there was no ultimate goal to achieve. (I learned later that you could become a “Lifetime Member” but that did not hold the same weight as earning Eagle.)

As the buzz became a reality in current scouting, I did a bit of research. There are 169 National scout organizations around the world, and only 11 are exclusively for boys. We were number 12 up until this year. When you look at the boys only countries, many of them restrict the behavior of women as well. Why do we need to keep scouts gender segregated? Boys and girls alike can enjoy all elements of scouting. I loved being a girl scout. Would I have joined the BSA if I could have and worked my way to Eagle? Probably. Am I excited about the changes? Yes. Do I think our country should have one scouting organization open to everyone, including transgender youth? YES!

Scouting sometimes gets a bad rep — for being exclusionary, for pushing a particular agenda, for other terrible things I don’t want to discuss on my blog. (Believe me, as someone actively involved in the organization, we do a lot to make sure stuff like that doesn’t happen on our watch.) But at its core it instills solid values, nurtures a child’s strengths and interests, and provides a place to make lifelong friendships. Often for both kids and parents, as is the case in our family.

When I set out to write my YA verse novel (WHICH WILL BE IN THE WORLD IN LESS THAN SIX MONTHS!!), I wanted my main character to be active in scouts. I gave him a moral dilemma and had him use the points of the scout law to figure out how to navigate through it. I’ll be revealing the book’s cover soon, and I’m excited that scouts plays a huge role in the design.

I don’t have a funny/embarrassing story for you this year. But I have a lot of wonderful memories that will never fade and mosquito bites which thankfully will. My boys found the sunglassed lifeguard from last year and invited him to sit at our table for every meal. We played. We laughed. We sang ridiculous songs at the tops of our lungs. We studied toads in mud puddles and celebrated accomplishments. We barely slept. I captured moments like this:

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brothers and best friends

It was awesome.