Month: October 2012

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Why I Never Liked Halloween.

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Daughter #1 makes fabulous costumes like this Mummy for my grand daughter.

I hate Halloween.  There I’ve said it.  I’ve come clean.  No more pretending.  Putting on a false face.  Wearing a polite mask while the rest of the world gushes fanatically about how killer Halloween is. I think it stinks.  Truth is, I’ve always hated it.  I can’t think of one happy Halloween memory.  It terrifies me.  Even as an adult.  I’m intimidated by complete strangers dressed in costumes and wearing masks or bloody makeup knocking on my door.  Even the small ones make my bones chill.  Nothing more sinister than a teensy weensy spider.   Some would say that’s kind of the point.  But not for me.  Before you call me the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge of Halloween, in my defense, there are some spellbinding reasons I feel this way.

Little back story.  I grew up in a small town in Northwestern Ontario.  Winters were cold there.  Very cold.  And very long.  Bleak at times. Some years the first snowfall came as early as October.  And the last one could come in May.  May, for God’s sake.  In between the snow was relentless.  Some years it felt like perpetual winter.  Perhaps that was just the teenage me in a bad mood.  But still.

This foul, malicious mean-spirited weather played a major roll in shaping, if not permanently blackening, my recollections of October 31.  I don’t even know what to call this thing.  Is it a holiday?  An event?  A special occasion?  A celebration?  Festival?  For me, it’s none of these.  But it truly was, and always will be, a night of horrors.

Here’s the blood-curdling, hair-raising reasons why.

The Halloween before Ma died my youngest was everyone’s little princess.

1. I was a shy kid.  This made knocking on the doors of strangers difficult at best.  Okay, I’ll admit these were all neighbors’ doors.  But every year on October 31 they felt like complete strangers to me.  Creepy visitors from another planet.  They just seemed weird.  Not like themselves.  I particularly feared the ones who invited me in to retrieve my treat.  Then asked me to sing or something equally humiliating.  This was painful.  It scared the Bejesus of out me. You’d think they were handing out million dollar bills instead of a lousy peanut in a shell.

2. I didn’t have any siblings close in age to trick or treat with.  This meant The Old Man or my older sister, who was practically an adult, had to take me from door to door.  It was lonely.  And sad.  I felt like an outcast.  A loser.  There’s nothing more pitiful than a lone trick or treater. Not nearly as dreamy as the Lone Ranger. Not even close. This also brought out the green-eyed monster in me. I envied the rowdy screeching C kids from across the street who paraded around the neighborhood in their clannish cluster of clever costumes.  Their mother was off her rocker at the best of times but this zaniness came in handy when constructing costumes. She was an artistic genius with an imagination that knew no bounds.  Her costume making skills were unrivaled.  Having said that, it might not have taken a whole lot of talent to out-costume the rest of us.

The yellow crayon costume. I was proud of this one at the time.

3. The options for costumes were limited. Nothing like it is today. You couldn’t go to Walmart and buy one.  Nor could you order one online. There weren’t any pop-up costume stores.  There were no tickle trunks. None of that.  You were left to your own devices.  Make do with what you had on hand.  At our disposal at 204, and for most families of the era, were sheets with holes, black shoe polish, raggedy old clothes, chiffon scarfs, square bandanas, bed pillows, worn-out cotton house dresses, broken brooms, fake cowboy hats and silver cap guns from Kresge’s or Woolworth’s.  This mundane collection of household odds and sods gave birth to the likes of Aunt Jemima, Roy Rogers, various uninspired ghosts, bums, witches and lesser famous cowboys, the odd pirate, gangster or something vaguely resembling an animal.  That was it.

4. I was often sick on October 31.  Fever.  Cold.  Body aches. Runny nose.  Headache.  Stomach flu.  The shakes.  Just overall malaise. The change of season brought with it the usual run of childhood illnesses.  Mine seemed to start right around Halloween.  I would drag myself from door to door in my Aunt Jemima costume, scarlet freezing hands clutching the white pillowcase I used to collect my treats, uncomfortable wooly winter jacket left open because it wouldn’t close around my stuffed-pillow belly, the ground slushy, slippery, uneven and hazardous under my brown rubber galoshes, snot and tears pouring down my black polished face as the wind fought for possession of my sack of treats.  It was abysmal.

5. Most of the candy was as ghastly as the night.  Just downright disappointing too.  Molasses kisses.  Tons of them.  Everyone, Ma and The Old Man included, doled these out by the fistfuls.  They were cheap and adults liked them.  There was an abundance of the regular old suckers as well, mostly grape, which I hated.  Just plain bad luck that I ended up with so many in this loathsome flavor.  There was the odd BB Bat, which I loved, and Double Bubble which I could have eaten by the carload, and one or two Tootsie Rolls, which I seriously considered trading The Old Man for.  There were also apples and weird nuts.  Nobody ate those even back then.  Razor blades and poison could be hidden in anything.  Besides as far as I was concerned, healthy treats had no place in my pillowcase.  After all, this was Halloween.  The one time in the year where you could stuff your face silly with sugar.  Even if it was in the form of molasses.

This Casper costume was a colossal fail.

So there you have it.  I traipsed around the neighborhood with The Old Man, frozen, sick, exhausted, pretending to be the woman on a pancake box, terrified and lonely.  Only to get home to 204 to find a pillowcase full of disappointing and lackluster treats.  Of course, this did not deter me from eating every last morsel by the middle of November.

I stopped this torture when I was 11 or 12, and no longer “went out.”  Back then you didn’t wear your costumes to school, nor were Halloween parties widely embraced.  I was off the hook.  Also, decorating your house was unheard of.  If there was a carved pumpkin on the front steps you were possibly over-the-top and an extreme Halloween celebrator.  It wasn’t the festive occasion that it is today.  Not by a long shot.  At best, it was a blip in the radar on the way to the best holiday of the year.  Christmas.

There was a blissful decade where I avoided all things Halloween.  And then I had children.  Don’t misunderstand, it still wasn’t something I embraced, nor got enthusiastic about.  My costume making skills hadn’t improved with adulthood either.  My imagination in this area appears to be stunted or nonexistent.  I always liked the notion of a tickle trunk but just never got around to creating one. I was a terrible costume maker despite my Seamstress chops. I could make an evening gown for Ma but for the life of me I couldn’t stitch together anything interesting for my kids to wear for Halloween.  No fierce animals.  Nor mythical creatures.  Nothing regal nor royal. Otherworldly.  Nor conjured. Nothing evil.  Nor good.  I was hopeless.

My oldest daughter is a living doll in this costume.

Over the years I made two feeble attempts at fashioning a costume from scratch. There was the yellow crayon I made for my oldest daughter.  She graciously wore this felt tube a couple of years in a row. The first time it was a full length crayon.  Ankles to neck.  The last time it was more mini.  Knees to neck.  The other atrocity was the Casper the Ghost costume I made for my youngest daughter.  The head piece was a complete fail.  It looked more like a brain on steroids than poor Casper’s head.  Thank God she was only three at the time and unaware that the costume was a hot mess.  And that her mother was responsible.

This brings me to reason number 6 for finding Halloween horrifying. This has nothing to do with the child from 204.  This is all about the adult me.  I feel inadequate.  Ineffective. Incapable of making a good costume. A lifetime sewer and I can’t stitch together a single idea that works.  I have been a complete and utter failure at all things Halloween.

Despite all of my Halloween trauma and agony, it appears I have not passed any of this anxiety and distress onto my three children.  Well, perhaps a little onto my youngest daughter. Maybe this has something to do with the Casper costume. Let’s just say, she’s seen pictures and leave it at that. They fully embrace the holiday-occasion-event-spectacle.  They dress up.  They’re gifted costume devisers, especially my oldest daughter.  They have fun.  They hoot and holler. They go boldly into the spooky night.  Unlike their mother who cowers in the corner waiting for the night to be over.

My son as somebody from Star Trek.

Footnote to this story.  A few years ago I wore a costume to work for Halloween.  Some of my colleagues were dressing up for the day and I wanted to be included in this group of “fun” folks.  I went as Cindy Crawford.  The costume was simple and understated.  I drew a mole just above the outer edge of my lip.  It was identical to Cindy’s.  That was it.  The rest of the costume looked like I always looked on Halloween.  Dull.  But I did have a great time that day getting my colleagues to guess who I was.  Best costume ever.

I also love molasses kisses now.  So there’s hope.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I am a Couch Potato.

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In front of my blue couch in my writing room.

I must confess.  I am a Couch Potato.  In my defense, I come by my CP status honestly.  Ma and The Old Man were also big CPs.  That was back in the day when this activity, or lack thereof, was considered an acceptable pastime.  Before there was an actual term for it.  Pre-guilt era.  Before I thought I should be making better use of my time.  By accomplishing stuff.  Getting things done.  Being a doer.  Not a layabout.  Back when it wasn’t synonymous with sloth.  Laziness.  Wasting time.  Or worse yet, my life.

There was a time when a potato was just a potato.  Mashed, baked or fried.  Served hot with vegetables and meat.  And a couch was just a couch.  A place to sit and put your feet up. Take it easy.  Stretch out.  Lie down.  Languish. Unwind and relax. Rest your weary bones.  Catch forty winks.  A little catnap.  Doze or fall into a deep sleep.

For the record, I like my potatoes mashed, baked or fried.  And I love couches for all the reasons I’ve just described.

Ma’s four kids on the maroon couch.

Little back story.  Ma loved couches long before I ever came into the picture.  We had more than a few during my life at 204.  But the first one had to have been my all-time favorite.  This seems to be the case with many “firsts” in life.  The benchmark for all that follows.  This particular first was a luxurious deep maroon embossed velvet, worthy of being called a “sofa.”  Comfy plush cushions with kid-sturdy wide arms and a head-resting back.  Designed for comfort and built to last.  It could accommodate a family of six easily.  Photographically perfect for portraits of children.  They just don’t make couches like that any more.

Ma asleep on the turquoise sectional.

After Ma’s mania for all things maroon passed, we moved into her turquoise phase of the sixties.  With that came the modern turquoise sectional, which Ma kept covered in plastic for the first year we had it.  This served not only to preserve the pristine newness of the couch but it also appeared to have been a peculiar part of the decorating trend of that era.  There was a spate of plastic covered furniture across the cities and towns of North America.  According to black and white photographic evidence, it seemed to be all the rage.  Why else would so much plastic have appeared in so many family photos?  What else could have accounted for this phenomenon? It was as much a part of the domestic decorating landscape as pole lamps and shag rugs.

Cuddle time on the brown couch with the floral coverlet.

After the plastic covered couch, there was the brown nylon ditty of the seventies.  Equally modern in style, and although not split in two, it did have a matching chair.  The plastic was replaced with fitted slip covers and loose coverlets.  First there was the brown and orange floral patterned coverlet with the fringed edge.  This was draped over the couch like an oversized table cloth.  It was awkward and never stayed properly tucked.  Ma replaced this with a snug fitting gold slip cover that almost looked like it was tailor-made for the couch.  Except when it shrank and no longer covered the cushions fully.

One year, my sister gave Ma a cozy harvest gold mohair throw that was perfect for snuggling under in the evenings, especially during the long cold winter months.  It also looked marvelous draped over the back of the gold slip-covered couch, adding a tone on tone decorative embellishment.  Practicality aside, the slipcovers and coverlets provided a fresh look without having to splurge on an entirely new couch.  Ma loved to experiment and change things up but we were not a family who could afford such whimsy.  So in typical Ma fashion she used her creativity to fill the gaps where her pocketbook was lacking.

Sleepy time on the brown couch with the gold slip cover.

At some point in the eighties Ma went “colonial” with her decorating scheme.  This meant everything had a casual country feel.  Veneer coffee and end tables were replaced with ones made of maple or pine.  The couch to match was large and tweedy.  Warm and earthy in orange, rust and brown. By this time Ma had fully embraced her “orange” period.  The floors were covered in wall to wall orange carpets and the front picture window was ablaze with orange flowered drapes.  Until then she had been dabbling with hints of orange in the coverlets.  But the eighties brought a full-on immersion into this joyous and ebullient color.  It was in this palette that she would remain until her dying day.  She was after all, a fiery and passionate Italian woman.

My niece cuddles with the cat on the tweed couch.

Regardless of the style, color or era, the purpose of these couches was always the same.  We were a family of loungers and languishers. Loafers and lollers. Sprawlers and slouchers.  And there was no better place for such a pleasurable pastime than Ma’s couch.  Nothing more welcoming and enjoyable than stretching out under a warm homey blanket, with the television six feet away broadcasting your favorite comedy or tear jerker.  And in our family the odds were, you’d be dozing off within minutes of the opening theme song. It was just the way we were. There we would remain. Sometimes we’d snooze for a few minutes.  Other times it was a few hours.  There was just something about Ma’s couches that induced sleep.  Something so deliciously reassuring and safe that sent us all off to La La Land. It didn’t matter if they were maroon or plastic covered turquoise.  Gold slip covered or orange tweed.  They all had the same affect.
No matter how long we’d been away. No matter how far we had ventured from 204.  Regardless of our age.  Child and grand child alike.  We all gravitated towards the couch.  Called dibs when it came time for bed during visits and holidays.  Everyone wanted to camp out on Ma’s couch.

The Old Man resting on the tweed colonial.

Years ago when I set up my first writing room in our home, one of the “must-haves” was a couch.  I wanted a private place to curl up and dream, sip tea, read novels, play my guitar, chat with a friend or take a snooze.  A comfy spot that was away from the rest of the household.  I not only wanted a room of my own, but a couch as well.  A big chair just wouldn’t do.  It had to be a couch.  It wasn’t just a piece of furniture after all.

My sanctuary.  My safe haven.  My hideout.  My shelter in the storm.  Ma’s cradling arms.

On the night after Ma died I sought refuge there.  The house had been full of people all day.  Our family had gathered to grieve and share memories.  We made frozen pizzas.  By seven o’clock that evening my head was pounding and my heart was aching.  I was raw.  Empty.  My soul was naked.  So I retreated.  Stole away from the chatter and tears to my safe place.  The couch in the little room of my own.  I crawled under the wool blanket and lay in the dark.  Everything was perfectly still.  My eyes were squeezed shut in pain. I listened to my heartbeat.  It was out of sync.

I wondered where Ma was.  I prayed that she was on an orange tweed couch sleeping peacefully under a mohair blanket.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: This is The Man we all Love.

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Sitting in the window of an abandoned farmhouse.

I have written a lot posts for all the magnificent Girl Warriors in my life.  My strong, fierce and beautiful daughters, grand daughter, daughter-in-law and the original warrior, Ma. Plus all the others, near and dear to me.  All glorious inspirational women.

I also have a son.  He is equally magnificent in my eyes.  Yet in many ways he’s a mystery to me.  A charming and perplexing enigma.  Perhaps it’s because he’s a boy and at the end of the day I must admit that I don’t fully understand the male species.

I was young when he came into the world.  So was he.  In truth, we grew up together.  He has taught me much since that wondrous day when I looked into his dark raisin eyes for the very first time.  I am eternally grateful for all the learning through the years. Even the difficult stuff.  I’ve probably learned more through those experiences than from the easy breezy butterfly days.

So many rights of passage we shared.  The holding close.  And the letting go.  All those milestones.  From the first step.  To the walk across the stage to receive his degree.  Everything in between.  Proud mother moments.  Heartbreaks and heroics.  Flights of fancy and family ties.  Unbreakable bonds.  Love is born.  And grows eternal in this mother-son relationship.

He stands shoulder to shoulder with the three other good men who I love dearly.  My strong and gentle big brother, my solid husband and my complicated father.  Each seemingly different.  At least on the exterior.  At once complex and full of mystifying layers.  Yet also sublimely straightforward and uncomplicated.  Always sincere.  Forthright.  Honest.  Kind.  They are the faces of strength, courage and tenderness in my often anxious world.

The 10 Steps to Becoming the Man We All Love:

The Old Man was so delighted with his grandson.

1. Be your own man. Authentic. Genuine. 100% bona fide you. The real thing.  Don’t be an impostor.  Nor live a vicarious life.  Grab a hold of what matters to you.  Put on your own jersey.  Strap on your own skates.   Play the game you love.  Not someone else’s.  Be an original.  A maverick.  The natural.  Always be the guileless boy who looks at the world with wide-eyed wonder.  Forever rub your hands together with glee and pure joy.  Be the spontaneous boy. And the solid man.  Work with your full range of emotions.  Express yourself completely.  Thoroughly.  Freely.  And if a tear falls. Let it.

2. Be brave-hearted.  Stand tall.  Stare down your fears.  Look them straight in the eyes.  Laugh at them.  Call their bluff.  Walk right through them.  Don’t go around.  Don’t avoid.  Face them head-on. Know that all courageous men have fears. Life is scary sometimes. For all of us.  Don’t be a victim.  Instead be valorous.  Do no shrink.   Roar.  Hoot and howl.  Feel the fear and get on with it.  There are no boogeymen under the bed.  No monsters hiding in the closet. Myths.  False emotions appearing real.  That’s all.  And always remember that you are far bigger than your fears.

My big brother with my nephew and my son sharing a cuddle.

3. Get a real kick out of life.  Have fun.  Find things that amuse and delight you.  Not just once and awhile.  But every day.  Don’t put it off for the weekend.  For vacation.  Or another time.   Play right now.  Cause a ruckus.  Bang on your drum all day.  Shake your tambourine.  Laugh your guts out.  Make a fool of yourself. Embrace happiness.  Enjoy the people you’re with right this very second.  Surround yourself with the lighthearted ones who put a smile on your face.  Take delight in every minute of this life you are given.

4. Be a loving man. And you will be loved.  Guaranteed.  More than you could ever imagine or dream. Open your heart wide and let in the love.  Don’t run from it.  Strong men have the guts to be tender.  Kind.  Compassionate.  Be a Gentle Ben.  Tom, Dick or Harry.  And remember, love isn’t always perfect.  Accept that sometimes it will hurt.  That’s okay.  Don’t let this frighten you. Don’t push it away.  Or turn your back.  Don’t give up on it. Love refines your heart and grows your compassion muscle.  Most importantly, learn to recognize love when it comes your way.  It doesn’t always come gift wrapped.  It may be completely different from what you had in mind.  Better even. In fact, the best thing that ever happened to you.

The proud uncle with his lookalike niece.

5. Find your tribe.  Your band of sisters and brothers. The ones where you fit in.  Belong. Feel at home with.  For these will be your family.  Some related by blood.  Others by the heart.  Surround yourself with people you trust, respect and enjoy.  You don’t have to always agree. You don’t even have to always get along.  But these are the faithful ones. Loyal. Steadfast. And true.  The ones who will be there for you.  With you.  By your side.  Through thick and thin. The ones who have your back.  Who pick you up when you fall. Help you find your way home in the dark.  They’re with you no matter what. No questions asked.  No doubt about it.

6. Follow your passions and the things that make you want to get up in the morning.  Jazzed and ready to go.  Have big dreams.  They don’t cost any more than the small ones. Your life will be so much richer for it.  Do the things that you love to do first.  And everything else will fall into place. Be enthusiastic.  Get psyched.  Pumped.   Gung-ho.  Embrace new ideas and ways of doing the things you already know. Be creative.  Imaginative. Take the magical mystery tour of discovery.  Go on an adventure.  Expand. Grow. Cultivate. Hone. Take risks. Embrace the failures on the way to your successes.  Learn and move on.

My son with “his lady” in Scotland on the adventure of their lives.

7. Be generous and magnanimous of spirit. With everything and everybody.  Don’t be stingy.  Don’t withhold. Don’t hang onto things.  Never covet. Give of what you have.  What you know.  Give a little. Or a lot.  But give. This isn’t necessarily about money.  Nor material things. It can be. Nothing wrong with that. If you’ve got it.  Give it.  But it’s also about giving of yourself.  Your time.  Your energy.  The natural gifts you came into the world with.  Take every opportunity to share these with others.  The more you do, the bigger you will be.  This will make you happier than anything you ever imagined.  For the more you give, the more you receive.

8. Be honest.  A man of your word.  Don’t make promises you can’t keep.  Nor intend to.  Be a man of integrity.  Honorable. Upstanding. Someone you can rely on.  Depend on.  Be the good guy who shows up.  Even in the stickiest of situations.  Know that when you shake on something that you are doing more than pressing flesh.  You are giving your word.  Your bond.  Don’t violate this sacred trust.  Respect others and you will be respected in turn.

My two lovely men standing tall at our wedding.

9. Defend and stand up for something.  Be righteous. Not self-righteous.  Find causes close to your heart.  Help those in need.  Shelter the weak.  The young.  The very old. Once you accept the challenge, don’t put conditions on who you’ll help and who you won’t.  Raise the bar on compassion.  Kindness.  Tolerance.  Embrace your fellow travelers.  Meet them eye to eye.  Carry the placard.  Wear the colors.  Pin on the badge.  But don’t force your beliefs down the throats of others. This is not a persuasive approach.  Don’t cloud the issues with misplaced anger.  This just creates mindless noise.  Be humble. Not sanctimonious.  Charitable.  Not complacent.  Be a leader when called upon.  And a follower when the time is right.  But most importantly, be a man that everyone wants in their corner.

10. Take care of yourself.  Do whatever it takes.  All the days of your life.  Not just physically.  But mentally.  And spiritually.  Do it for yourself.  And for all the people who love you.  Be active in every arena of your life.  Find your sport. Get out there and move.  Join a team.  Or go it alone.  Play hockey.  Or a round of golf.  Walk the dog.  Or chase the kids.  It’s all good.  Learn to cook and eat well. Spend time looking inwards.  Take a moment for introspection.  Meditate.  Pray.  Go for walks alone with your thoughts.  Get to know yourself.  And “to thine own self be true.”  Do these things and you will be the man we all love.