HALLOWEEN THROUGH MY YEARS

Yesterday I read an article about how Halloween has become a huge holiday with spending on costumes, candy, parties, etc., having increased more than 55% since 2005. In fact, approximately 70% of the American public will participate in Halloween, spending about $7.4 BILLION dollars in 2014. This includes $2 BILLION for candy and $350 MILLION on pet costumes. 

It made me think about when I was of trick-or-treating age and just what kind of money was spent on Halloween back then. My family certainly didn’t spend a lot of money on a store-bought costume or on “fun-sized” candy either.  In those days, you spent time thinking about your costume and figuring out how you could make it from a variety of materials begged, borrowed or stolen from a variety of family and friends. I remember throwing a sheet over my head to become a ghost; a relative’s old suit to become a man; or someone’s fancy old dress to be a princess or movie star. If we used make up, it was usually the stuff our mother’s had on hand and volunteered. 

The adults in my youth were adults and didn’t dress up at all. If I was accompanied  by an adult (which ended fairly early in elementary school) in my rounds to collect free stuff (it wasn’t all candy then either), whichever adult was with me/us wore their normal clothes and the same if they stayed home and handed out the treats. Today adult costumes are a huge business and there are more adult-only parties then kid parties. As for our pets, if they were the barking (or biting) kind, they got closed up in a bedroom until the frivolity was over.  

So, there I was, dressed in my ghost costume ready for trick or treating. Did I carry a fancy bag or pressed plastic punkin in which to place the goodies…nope, I used a pillowcase. Groups of us would traverse the neighborhood, connecting to compare which house had the best stuff. Sometimes I think we even did doubles if the treat was extra special. 

Extra special had a different meaning as well. It didn’t mean full-sized (now those HUGE ones) candy bars, but the popcorn balls made by the old lady down the street or the special cookies made by another neighbor on the next block. I never knew the name of those cookies, but they were absolutely delicious, and thinking about those popcorn balls still makes my mouth water. At the end of the evening, my parents didn’t check my pillowcase to see if there was anything dangerous inside; nor did they throw out those homemade goodies…I got to eat everything I brought home; and I tried very hard not to gulp that popcorn ball down first thing. 

When my own kids were big enough to participate in Halloween, it was still a pretty laid-back holiday. Of course the kids weren’t laid-back because it meant candy, candy, candy. I don’t think I ever purchased an actual costume except for the time my high school son decided to go as a girl, and even then, the only things I bought were one of those long curly blond wigs and press on fingernails. I remember making ghost and clown costumes which lasted a couple of years each. One year, my husband’s mother made elder son a Star Wars costume. Other times, we hauled stuff out of the closets and used purchased make-up to turn the boys into something other than themselves. 

It was about that time, I think that we began buying those bags of fun-sized candy bars. Initially, the boys each got to trick or treat the neighborhood with mom or dad in tow; but as they became older, they were allowed to venture further on their own with other neighbor kids. Since my sons are ten years apart, the elder even spent a couple of Halloweens driving his younger brother on a huge route to collect candy (yes, he used a pillowcase) with the proviso that the younger had to share with the older. They had a wonderful time doing this together.  

Now, my sons have their own children and I’m so grateful it’s them and not me. I cannot imagine trying to decide which costume should be purchased or how much money should be allotted in the budget for this purpose. The miserly me shudders at the idea of buying some cheap piece of crap (for want of a better word) only to discard it the day after. Of course, I love to see them all dressed up and hollering, “Trick or Treat” at the front door; and, of course, we give them far more than just a single piece of candy.

About the time the whole Halloween partying began, my husband and I did participate for a few years. In the beginning, the costumes weren’t too elaborate or costly. In fact, I won first prize one year. I purchased a hat and cane, eyebrows which I cut up so I could use one as a mustache and wore an old suit and shirt that had been in the back of the closet for years. Voila, I was Charlie Chaplin. I think the fact I walked funny and didn’t talk all evening is actually what won me that bottle of champagne.  

As the years passed, however, the costumes became extremely elaborate, beautiful and spendy. Our last costume party, we donned black garbage bags, stuffed them with newspaper and went as the California raisons…we won zip. At that point, we decided these parties just weren’t for us and ceased to go. Now, it’s been a long time since we’ve received an invitation. Most likely it’s because the hosts figure we’d show up costumed as a couple of old people. Since we do a really good job of being old people, we’d surely win first prize.   

Instead, we’ll stay home as usual and pass out candy to the 15-20 kids who make it to the door and gorge ourselves on the left overs. That’s just as much fun as it used to be to imbibe alcoholic beverages and probably just as bad for us now as the alcohol was then. Not to mention the fact that four bags of candy comes to about $10. Clearly we aren’t doing our part when it comes to that $7.4 BILLION.

GREAT AUNT FLONNIE

I didn’t discover Great Aunt Flonnie until she was 95 years old. Yes, I knew she had married my grandmother’s brother, but I had never met her or her family. It wasn’t until one of her daughters wrote asking for information about my family because she was working on geneology that I even gave much thought to my mother’s/grandmother’s family in Tennessee.

My mother gave birth to me in Tennessee in Clark County which is just one county over from Oneida where Great Aunt Flonnie lives. My mom and my grandmother left there where I was a year old; and while my mother’s brothers often returned to Tennessee, neither she nor my grandmother ever expressed an interest in going back for a visit.

Of course, I provided the information requested and after thinking about it for a while, wrote back to this long-lost cousin and told her my husband and I were coming to visit. It wasn’t until after we arrived in Oneida and were waiting for my cousin to pick us up that I became filled with anxiety:

“Oh my God, what have I done? What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them? What was I thinking?”

We followed my cousin out to Great Aunt Flonnie’s home. She, another daughter and a man there to trim some trees were all outside. With great trepidation, I stepped out of the car, only to be met with outreached arms and:

“My land, I woulda knowed you was family anywhere, You look just like Adee [my grandmother] did the last time I saw her.” (all with a strong southern accent)

Enveloped in the arms of this tiny woman (85 pounds soaking wet), her words like music in my ears, trepidation and fears disappeared. For the next three days I was enchanted by this woman, her stories about her life and the various places she and her daughter took me and my husband to visit. I really need to get those stories down and will do so on this blog as time goes by.

This visit to Tennessee and Great Aunt Flonnie was the first of two. I returned five years later to be there with her and her family to celebrate her 100^th birthday. I tried to take her some homemade peach jam, but those nasty examiners at the airport confiscated it, so I had to settle for purchasing some small suncatchers which were immediately hung in her windows. I had purchased a card that wished her a Happy 100^th Birthday and which I noticed she removed from the basket of cards time and again as though it was a special treasure.

Great Aunt Flonnie was wished Happy Birthday by that fellow on the morning show, and President and Mrs. Obama, interviewed by the local paper, local television stations, and honored with recognition from a variety of people and organizations. It was wonderful to see this tiny woman with all her faculties intact laughing and joking and enjoying this great day even though she indicated she didn’t really think it required all this fuss.

When I left Oneida, I promised I would be back to celebrate her 105^th. She told me she didn’t think she’d be around by then even though she had just recently given up driving herself to Sunday School and the nursing home to visit her younger sister, was living alone, and had the previous summer (as always) planted a huge garden and frozen and canned the results.

The reason I’m writing about Great Aunt Flonnie today is that she has once again returned home from the hospital, her recovery being termed a “miracle” by her doctors.  This happened once already just before her 104^th birthday and the emails I received then indicated this was most likely it, she wouldn’t survive. Well, she surprised everyone and made it to 104, then 105 this past January.

Once again in the last couple of weeks, emails indicated Great Aunt Flonnie would most likely not see 2015. My cousin’s email from yesterday said the doctors had predicted she wouldn’t live through that first night. Now, she was home, could talk on the phone, eat and drink bits throughout the day, and sit on the bedside for a few minutes at a time. She’s very weak, but so happy to be home and seeing the sunshine.

The downside of this is, of course, that Great Aunt Flonnie may be bedridden from this point forward. After the last episode like this, she was unable to live alone so her second eldest daughter moved in with her and she began to use a wheelchair. Even so, Great Aunt Flonnie loved her daily car rides and visits to the park. She was even the Grand Marshall of the big high school parade this fall. The school was celebrating 100 years and honored Great Aunt Flonnie as the oldest living graduate and valedictorian of her class.

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it to number 105 which was just as well as my cousin, her caretaker, was quite ill at that time. But, if Great Aunt Flonnie continues to improve and reaches number 106 in January, I really think I’d like to go back; and, if nothing else, sit beside her bed and tell her how much I want to be just like her when I grow up.

SOMETIMES ONLY MOM CAN MAKE IT BETTER?

Yesterday I cleaned up all the material I’d removed from the flowerbed on the south side of the house. I hadn’t expected to be able to do this because it was supposed to rain. When the sun came out I couldn’t resist being outside even if it was to clean up my mess. It felt good to bring order to the space, to be hot and sweaty and admire my own progress. It’s amazing how feeling good can change in a very short time.

My neighbor had told me about the yellow jacket nest at the edge of our properties. She’s deathly afraid of stinging insects and said she’d never go near it. I assured her that I would take care of it…they don’t scare me. I even related the story about the wasp nest in the raspberries of the neighbor across the street. The old gentleman who lived there then had been a welder, and when I showed up after dark in my tank top, shorts and sandals, he was waiting clad in all his welding gear. He held the flashlight while I used clippers to snip the raspberry cane just above the wasp nest and it fell into the waiting garbage bag which he quickly twisted closed. I still chuckle about our individual expectations with regard to those wasps after dark.

As of yesterday afternoon, I hadn’t done anything about the yellow jacket nest. It was still there and apparently, even though I was merely raking the leaves beneath the rhododendron, they took exception to my removing the leaves above their nest. They began to fly about and fret, but I ignored them and continued with my raking. I guess they didn’t like that either, or at least one of them didn’t, because I felt a sharp sting through my glove. I yanked my glove off, didn’t see a stinger or anything like that and sucked hard on the stinging area. This didn’t help much at all.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t just stop and walk away (well, I could have, but chose not to). I had to put my tools away, move the yard waste container to its proper location and close up the garage before I could go inside. By then, the sensation in the area between my thumb and first finger on the top of my hand had gone from stinging to painful. I wanted my husband’s bite relief pen. I rummaged through his lunchbox and desk (something I never do) before I finally woke him up to ask where it was. Should have been there he responded. Later, when he got up, he emptied out his lunchbox and couldn’t find it. This morning when he put everything back, there it was. Once again, my belief that items go to another dimension for a time is sustained.

Then, I tried to remember what my mother did when I was a kid. That’s the only time I can remember ever being stung which is probably why the idea of getting stung didn’t carry much weight. Besides “mommy-care” baking soda, meat tenderizer, ice all sort of came to mind so I gave them a try. Nothing seemed to work and I found myself wishing my mother were there to take care of me.

Now, that may seem a little silly, especially at my age, but it would have felt so good to have her tend my owie. Even more than that, I know if she could have treated me and then held me while I cried and felt sorry for my poor yellow jacket-stung self, she would have made it all better.

My mom’s been gone for more than 16 years now, and she surely didn’t provide much in the way of “mommy-care” for many years before her death because I wasn’t in need (or didn’t think I was). Still, I always knew that no matter how much something hurt (or felt good for that matter), she was always there to make it all better (or celebrate). I was rather amazed at how strongly I wanted her with me yesterday and how positive I was that she would have made it all better.

Instead, the sting continued to hurt for the rest of the afternoon and all evening until I went to sleep. This morning, before my eyes were even open, my hand itched so badly, I wanted to use a wire brush on it. The application of the bite sting stuff once it reappeared hasn’t helped much.  It still itches like crazy, but I’ve become sure of two things…(1) I won’t be so dismissive and glib about future stinging insect encounters, and (2) I’m sure mommy would, indeed, have made it oh so much better much sooner.

DEPRESSION SUCKS

More than a century ago when my great grandmother was alive and raising kids, I’m sure she suffered from depression. Who wouldn’t way back when in the coves of Tennessee? It was hard-scrabble farming, no electricity, running water, grocery stores, or any of the “conveniences” we now take for granted. At the same time, my great-grandmother most likely wasn’t aware of the “haves” since pretty much everyone she knew were have-nots as well. No major publications or television to show her the “perfect” world she didn’t have.

My grandmother didn’t appear to suffer from depression even though she didn’t have it any better than her mother. Married to a man 40+ years older than her, she raised his 11 kids from two previous deceased wives plus the five he gave her and took care of him when he became bedridden. This, all while working a hard-scrabble farm with no amenities. I was even born in her cabin in front of the fireplace which was the warmest place available, and my uncle served as my incubator until my mother was ready to have me with her.

Grandma, too, had a hard life and was part of my life from the very beginning. I don’t remember her ever dwelling on the hardships she endured or thinking or believing she had a hard life. In fact, she was upbeat, amusing and looked for and found silver linings in whatever clouds passed her way. She even had fond memories and often told stores about her good old days .

My mother was the antithesis of my grandma once we moved to the city. Before that, as a stay-at-home mom, she baked and sang and kept the house immaculate. I remember these as very happy times. Once we left the hills for the city, things changed. Dad was injured, then couldn’t find a job and so she had to go to work to keep the family going. That, and easy access to print, radio and television advertising (or so I think) did affect her view toward life, and it wasn’t ever positive again as long as she lived.

I had a wonderful childhood and life was very good until later on. The doctor told me I suffered from depression and prescribed antidepressants. I would take them for a time, then stop, become depressed and the cycle would repeat. Finally, my doctor told me I was to be commended for not becoming an alcoholic or drug user, but I simply had to accept the fact my chemical composition was such that without my medication I would be depressed. So, basically, knock it off and take your pill every day.

What made me think about this was some time I spent with a friend. I know this friend, like me, suffers from depression. I’m sure we both take our medication, but there are still times when life seems to be more than we can handle. So, we withdraw from our friends, stop doing much of anything and have private pity parties. Of course, we both know getting out and about, accomplishing a chore; basically doing anything that brings a positive gain to our lives will help alleviate that depression.

Today, depression isn’t totally viewed as a disease to be ashamed of, but there is still (I think) a stigma attached to being a sufferer of depression. I mean, really, logically, what do I have to be depressed about?  I’ve been married forever to a man who’s not perfect (but then neither am I); and together we have two independent and wonderful sons whose wives make them happy and grandchildren we absolutely adore. We both managed to retire; and while not jetting around the world on a regular basis, don’t have to worry about having a roof over our heads or food on the table.

Today, my life is a 1,000 (or more) times better than that of my great-grandmother with far fewer reasons to be depressed. I have learned I can choose not to be depressed by getting busy, calling friends, working out, accomplishing a major project, doing things that make me feel good. Most of the time, this is the choice I make. So, why are other days so difficult, and why on those days, do I choose to be depressed? I don’t really have an answer to this question, I just know now and then, no matter what, life and depression sucks.

THE BEST REASON TO BLOG

Sometimes encouragement and support comes from an unexpected source. Sometimes my own child, the child I carried and have known for more than 44 years surprises me with his insight and comments about something that is very important to me. It’s also a surprise to find that same something is very important to him. 

This morning an email from my son provided surprise and encouragement with regard to this very blog, i.e.,

“What the heck? No writings since August? You should keep doing them Ma. Even if no one comments. It's like a bit of history for me or you or us as a family. It's your insight to how you are, daily or yearly perspectives on things you do or the family did/does. Also bits of family loved ones who have been forgotten but are remembered for what they have passed on.

“Anyways, just my thoughts on your blog. Your retired, you have time (I think), you can be the writer you always wanted to be (and you are) by sharing your thoughts, ideas, wisdom, humor, experience & history of your life with us. 

“Sure it might be a small group of folks. But it's these folks who love you Ma.” 

He also said he’s printing them out and plans to save them to have when he’s as old, or older, than his dad.

Decades ago (and I wish now that I’d begun with the very first Christmas we were married), I began to write a Christmas newsletter. Each one had a paragraph or two about each family member. They celebrated each member’s success or reported on difficulties for that year…soccer team championship or the breast cancer battle are examples. Each newsletter is a little annual family history; and even though my sons are grown with families of their own, I continue to write and send these newsletters, which began with four members and now includes ten.  I’ve always imagined the boys having and reading them when I’m no longer around to continue creating these annual reports.

It never occurred to me until this morning’s email that I was doing the very same thing with my blog postings. From reading other blogs and thinking about what I wanted to do with my blog, I was more oriented toward a goal of obtaining what another blogger I read just achieved…10,000 readers. If I didn’t have readers or my readership wasn’t climbing, then what I was writing must not be of great interest to anyone. I hadn’t realized my blogging provided information, history, thoughts and ideas my own son would want to print and keep and treasure. Surely, this is the very best and most important reason to blog…at least in my opinion.

Thank you son, for your email today…it’s one I’m going to save and read again and again for inspiration.