Reflections on Aging

A few weeks ago, I turned 40 years old.  I don't necessarily feel 40, but I've been told that I look it by "so-called" friends who will remain nameless, KAREN!  Accused of being a cougar, even though my darling hubby is five years older than me, I apparently am no longer kissed by youth's dew.   A dear friend even embarrassed me by taking out one of those horrible "lordy, lordy look who's 40" ads in The Sentinel-Echo - the hometown newspaper.  And people actually SAW it and commented on it.

Suffice it to say that I am not ashamed or even fearful that my faces shows each passage of time and that my body is a scarred road-map to major events in my life.  I am even less concerned that my hair, streaked in "Bride of Frankenstein" gray, makes the point that I'm no longer considered young.  When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who has lived life, along with stray chin hairs that I cannot seem to get rid of.  Superficial things like wrinkles and stray eyebrows just do not concern me.  I'm glad that I have crow's-feet crinkles and even though I've smoked on and off forever, my face does not have the deep ruts associated with the nasty habit.  I laugh and smile too much for that to happen.

So turning 40 doesn't make me sad.  In fact, as I reflect on birthdays past, I can't say that I would go back to any other age.  There are certain days, granted, that I would like to replay.  Certain times where I would like to go back and pay more attention.  Certain things that I might have rephrased.  But regrets, not really.  I'm lucky that way.  Not to say I've always been Little Suzy Sunshine - far, far from it.  But when I was mean, I meant it.  And when I was wrong, I apologized, even though it might have taken years to realize the error and attempt to fix it.  I did make an effort.  When I truly loved, I wasn't afraid to show it, no matter what the consequences.  And so far, I haven't committed real evil.  Considering I think I have definite serial killer tendencies, I think that's saying something.

I was born on a Tuesday afternoon in 1970 to Ruth and Donald Jackson.  You know the old saying, "Tuesdays child is full of grace."  Well, they obviously haven't met me seeing as I fall down walking on flat surfaces.  My parents are still married and live in the same house we moved to when I was 4 years old.  I am lucky to have them.  They're both incredibly hardworking, intelligent, and creative people.  My mom is an amazing artisan who can take scraps of fabric and turn them into something beautiful.  My dad is a human calculator who can add figures in his head quicker than I could enter them into a machine.  I know they love me and are proud of who I have become.  But I also know that they're not about to let me get a big head or put on airs.  That kind of behavior will STILL get the smack brought down on me, toot suite!  That kind of raising grounds a person in reality.  I am thankful for it.

My darling hubby and I have been together for so long that it's difficult to remember life pre-Jay.  I think we have a unique relationship - we're partners and we rarely argue.  And when we do disagree, it's usually over something trivial like taking out the garbage or loading the dishwasher.  The big things that can make or break a marriage, we have those down to a science.  He is so good to me.  He supports my ideas, makes me coffee, and has a knack for making my knees go weak.  I know, sap-city, but it's true.  I don't tell him enough how much I love and appreciate him and how thankful I am that he is in my life.  But does anyone ever let the one they love know how much enough?  Marriage is a lot of work but I'm happy to say that we have persevered.  Our son, Jack, is proof of that.

There is so many things about Jack that amaze me.  His vocabulary is phenomenal and his personality is very giving and gentle.  His stubborn streak exists in a mirror image of mine and his easy-going nature is a mirror image of his father.  From the top of his head to his lips he is me made over.  From the lips down, he is his father.  Of course, the things that come out of his mouth are all Jack.  His sweet smile, sparkly eyes, and general ability to do anything tug on my heart like nothing ever has.  When he first appeared in a school play, I cried like an idiot when he came onstage.  My heart-felt like it would explode.  To say he is my world would be an understatement.  He is my universe.

I love my job.  I think I love my job even more because I paid my dues to get here.  I'm doing work that I think is important, I'm challenged in a daily basis, and I get to work for and with the greatest people in the world.  Education is something that is vitally important to me - and to be a part of such an innovative institution, well, I am constantly making people sick because I am so psyched and ready to go.  I have NEVER felt like this at any other job... not even the newspaper.  I finally found a home.

My animals are another matter.  I love my goofy dogs, crazy cats, insane chickens, pretty peacocks, giant geese, and delightful ducks... and let's not forget the guineas.  The goat, well, I can take him or leave him.  Even though Jay calls me Dr. Doolittle, there is a camaraderie I have with these creatures.  I wish people could be more like animals.  If you're happy, show it.  If you're mad, get over it.  And be sure to eat on time.  Perhaps that's just wishful thinking.  But the animals really do bring a peace of mind to me that I treasure on a daily basis.  There is something comforting knowing that these creatures depend on me for affection, care, food, and companionship.  I take that responsibility very seriously.

And my gardening... I love my plants!  Finally, after much desire, I have a greenhouse to work in all year round.  Grand plans for this springs garden are in process as I make lists and begin creating magic with plants.  I love seeing seeds mature to flowering and I enjoy sharing the bounty of a great harvest with friends.  I like to dig in the dirt and feel its coolness on my skin and let the richness of it fill my senses.  I enjoy creating my English garden on my hillside, working it a little more every year.  It takes a commitment to be a gardener or any type of farmer.  You know you're in it for the long-haul.  Kind of like being married and having a kid.  It's a commitment that has to be nurtured on a daily basis.

So as I countdown to middle-age, I'm happy to say that I made it.  I hope when I really am the crazy chicken lady about 40-45 years down the line, brain addled with dementia, that my son remembers his momma as I am now - at my apex.  Happy, secure, confident, loved, and loving.  Hopefully, he'll smile at the thought and pick out a really nice nursing home.



Don't Fall on Me

Today is an REM kind of day.  Not the "Losing My Religion" REM, but the "Driver 8" REM.  I associate REM with fall.  Of leaves falling and stunning colors filing the woods on the sides of the interstate that I used to drive every week to EKU.  This is the music that reminds me of those college days spent sleeping late because of late night drives and Waffle House pit stops.  When going to the library was work and making it to class was even more like the worse job on the planet.   It reminds me of days spent smoking a cigarette out in EKU's quad, sitting with my legs crossed like an Indian, people watching my day away.  I like to refer to this time as the "no responsibilities" era of my life.

Fall of the year is a special time.... back in the day, of course I thought I was swamped with responsibilities, or rather, I was swamped with trying to figure out how to get out of my responsibilities.  I was a terrible student - I missed class so much once that I forgot where the room was when I went to take the final.  I got a C.  I didn't think it was right but I didn't ask questions.

Nonetheless, I did go through phases where I would actually go to class.  And it never ended well.  Mostly due to my clumsiness.  I am horizontally challenged - I trip over my own feet on flat surfaces.  It's a curse - I've always had it.

At first my parents thought it was due to a lazy eye.  I would just run into things and fall down.   After a year of wearing an eye patch and making the Jack Elam eye come into a little more to the center, I still fell down all the time.  I felt out of trees, down stairs, up stairs, out of swings, off monkey bars, off steps, whatever.  I always fell down.  There's really not a lot of help for my particular kind of clumsiness.  Apparently I had a family history of weak ankles.  And, my parents, being eternally optimistic, thought I would grow out of it.  I didn't.  I'm almost 40 years old and I'm still falling down. I have had some doozys!  But the hall of fame, best fall of all time, happened at EKU - in a little class in the science building called Biology the science of life.

The semester of my great fall was a time when I had decided once again to be responsible.  I actually went to this lecture most of the time and attended lab regularly.  I went in to take the final exam, I actually remembered where the class was located, and I even had studied a little.  So, I sat down in my seat along with approximately 200 of my peers.  I sat down and began working through the material.  I have always been a fast test-taker.  I finished and got up to walk down to the lecture pit to hand it my responses.

About half-way down the stairs, I suddenly had a premonition and felt very clearly that I was going to fall.  Then I did.

Now I had fallen down before and embarrassed the hell out of myself - at a friends party in high school I sat down on a stool and broke it into a million pieces, falling into the floor.  Once in an accounting class I went to sleep and fell out of my chair.  I was no stranger to the experience.  Suffice it to say, I knew this one was going to be different.

And it was!  When I say I fell, it wasn't a stumble.  It was a much more theatrical than that.  In fact, I would say it was an EPIC fall.  And to me, it all happened in slow motion.  It probably took less than 10 seconds but during that time I was falling, I was in a state of suspended animation.  I didn't feel any pain or anything really, except something akin to floating.  Once I tripped, I immediately felt my head go over my feet into a somersault.  I proceed to roll in this way down the lecture stairs.  I saw my professor try to catch me.  He missed.  When I finally stopped moving I was slammed up again the wall underneath the chalk board with my head in a garbage can.  I could feel the blood oozing from my busted knees.

My professor ran to me and asked if I were all right.  All I could say was "You can't fail me."  He said, "I won't."  I got a C.   Apparently I wasn't as prepared as I thought I was. 

To the class' credit, no one laughed.  No one even breathed.  Semesters later, however, a student who witnessed the fall for herself met me in another class.  I mentioned falling down in Biology once and she jumped up and pointed at me and said "That was YOU!!!!"  And then she burst out laughing.  In fact, she laughed until she cried and I secretly hoped she wet herself because the more she laughed the redder and hotter I felt my ears become.  Sure sign that I'm embarrassed, my ears get really really red and you could probably grill a cheese sandwich on them.

Of course, as a professor, I use that story all the time as a reason NOT to be afraid of public speaking as nobody can top making that kind of fool of themselves.  I find that most students agree with this logic.  I am getting older now and while I still fall down, I find that it hurts my body a lot more than it used to hurt my pride.  Which reminds me of another great REM song - (Don't) Fall On Me... I just hope I don't fall at all.

The Ballad of Honey and Daisy

This is the story of Honey and Daisy, two little chickens who have changed my way of thinking about things like knowledge, medicine, and spirit.  Of course, they didn't begin the story with those names... they earned them.

I purchased both Honey and Daisy this year as day-old-chicks.  Honey is a Dominique and Daisy is a Speckled Sussex.  They joined their sisters and were remarkably easy to raise.  Of course, they were my third batch of diddles this year, so my knowledge curve has increased quite a bit.  They grew well, had little in the way of serious issues, and were adorable little babies.  They were released with the other chicks into the pen with Randy the Rooster and his harem at 9 weeks.  Randy accepted them quickly and kept them safe and sound.  They were doing great - no problems.

One week later, I was checking the checks for signs of the hateful hen's pecking order games.  Everyone was doing great, except for Daisy.  She was bloody on the tops of her wings and was missing several feathers.  This was something that the hateful hen may or may not have been responsible for as I have baby Muscovy ducks.

Something I didn't know about Muscovy ducks is that baby ducks LOVE to pick feathers off any other bird - or at least my baby Muscovy do.  Even Charlie the peacock has had a tail feather removed by force via a baby Muscovy drake.  I picked up Daisy and cradled her in my arms and brought her to the chicken hospital.  No longer in the basement, the chicken hospital does double-duty as a brooder on the back porch.  I have quit even thinking about how absolutely red-neck I am and continue to become.  Once there, I slathered her wings with neosporin.  I knew she would be okay - that she just needed some time.

One week passed and Daisy's feathers were coming in nicely.  After checking on her, I walked down to the chicken yard to see my babies.  I brought down a few loaves of bread to treat the birds.  As I was picking through the pieces and making them into little bits, I noticed Honey sort of fall over.  I checked the other birds and they seemed fine.  I picked up Honey and noticed that her head sort of fell over - like if she wore shoes, she would be looking at her shoelaces.   I moved her head around gently with my hands and it was as limber as a rubber band.  I rushed her to the chicken hospital and placed her gently inside with Daisy.

Daisy immediately pecked the newcomer and I had to swat her away.  My darling hubby made an antibiotic water trough and we placed it inside.  After checking over Daisy and noticing that she had a perfect daisy on her shoulder where her feathers grew back, we took her down to rejoin her sisters.  However, the little Dominique was not getting any better.  Although she could still eat, she was having trouble keeping her head up.  After the course of the next few hours, she couldn't hold it up at all.

After two days of this, holding her head to eat and drink, I was beginning to think that she was not going to make it.  I talked to my folks about her problem and they didn't have any advice to offer.  I reconciled that my little Dominique would die.

Then about an hour later, my mom called me from my grandma's house.  Mamaw had told her that my chicken had limberneck and to give it a dose of honey.  I was ready to try anything - so I raced to my medical supplies, pulled out a syringe, removed the needle and poured some honey into a small jar.  I slurped up the sticky goodness with the syringe and went outside to dose the little Dominique.  My darling hubby held her and I opened her mouth and pushed the plunger on the syringe.  She perked up at the taste of the honey.  And we placed her inside the hospital.  And waited.

Within an hour, she was moving much better and was able to hold her head up for a little while on her own.  I, much like my late grandfather, was of the opinion that if a little dose was good another would be better.  So, I dosed her again.  After this dose, she was up, zipping around, and holding her head up high.  I let her sleep in the brooder, and then gave her one more dose the next morning. She was completely recovered.  I was a happy, happy camper!

Because I am a natural researcher, I naturally looked up the whole honey-limberneck connection.  And surprise, there isn't one!  Limberneck is apparently akin to a chicken type of botulism.  Most chickens die without the anti-toxin.  The toxin is apparently easy for chickens to come into contact with.  They can catch it from a fly that's been exposed.  Usually, limberneck affects about 40 percent of a flock, I'm counting myself extremely lucky that only two birds were affected - Honey and a little Silkie that didn't make it because I didn't know about the Honey.  Everyone else is subjected to daily looks and they're getting used to it.  I want to make sure I catch it before it kills.

After my research, I called my Mamaw to tell her that the little chicken, now named Honey, was doing great!  She told me her grandma would pick up chickens and dose them with honey for limberneck all the time.  After I hung up the phone, laughing that Mamaw said she was going to start charging me for this type of advice, I watched Honey for a few more hours and then brought her back down to meet her sisters.  She walked out of my hands and promptly started eating scratch.  I was amazed.

Both Daisy and Honey are doing fine now.  Both rush to meet me when I bring food in the mornings and both will mill around my feet if I am sitting down there watching the birds.  They know they're well cared for - and Honey, especially, seems to want to be extra special friends.  People say that chickens are stupid and do not have the same soul and personality that other animals do.  Well, I beg to differ.  Honey is special - she hitches rides on the feed cans while I walk to the feeders, climbing up my arm to see what I'm doing almost everyday.  I place her on the feed can and she sits there, pecking away at pellets, happy as a little clam.  While I do love a Daisy, nothing is sweeter than Honey!

The One They Called Seventh Son

I first met Rankin Creech when I was born although I have no memory of it. He was my mother's father and he passed away a few years ago after a long bout with cancer.  Rank, as he was known to all, Papaw as he was known to me, had a unique way with words.  His language was peppered with "Rankisms" as they came to be known to everyone in our family.   A few examples follow:

If you ain't loving, you ain't living.
Love makes the world go round but money greases the wheel.
Hope for the best, expect the worst, and do the possible.
A whiskey glass and a whore's ass will make a horse's ass out of you.

Pretty good advice all the way around.  But he was much more than the "Rankisms."

Papaw was born a seventh son of a seventh son and he never lay eyes on his father.  In Appalachian culture and folklore, this gave him the magical ability to breathe into a baby's mouth and cure the thrush and charm warts off your body with a touch and a few whispered words.  Apparently, this worked, because my mother swore it worked on the warts on my hand.   His mother was a Cherokee Indian and his father died before he was born.  To say he was unique was an understatement.  He was brilliant and eccentric.  But he was also kind to a fault.

When I was a little girl, he used to dazzle me with his musical ability.  Self-taught both to play music and to read words, he was a thrilling musician to watch.  He could play any instrument by ear and sing songs with a massive amount of emotion.  The hairs on my neck would raise when he would sing The Green Green Grass of Home.   I can clearly remember my family gathered around, after a supper of my Mamaw's excellent cooking, listening to Rank play and sing.

He was a beautiful man who did not age until he was in his late 70's.  He looked perpetually 38 years old.  Dark hair, dark eyes, and moustached, Rankin dressed in black until I was in my 20's.  He loved western wear and cowboy boots.  He wore his clothes close to his skin.  He exercised regularly and took vitamins everyday.  He was married to my Mamaw until she died in the 80's, for more than 45 years.  After my Mamaw died, Rankin lived a different life.

Growing up in the hills of Harlan County, Kentucky, my Papaw worked in the mines until retirement.  He broke his back when he was very young in a mining accident and was in a body-cast for a year. When the cast came off, he went back to work.  After the accident, he never missed one day of work.

He taught himself to read as an adult.  He was able to comprehend the mystical with ease, often providing commentary on the Bible to my mother, aunts and uncles.  He knew most of the Bible by heart and was able to quote it easily and apply it to most any situation.  But he was not a preacher in the traditional sense.  Rank was more about celebrating joy and passion.  He lived his life the way he wanted to live it and when it was in his power, he gave others what they wished for.  I always wished for a piano.

When I was five years old, Rank discussed my musical ability with me in-depth.  I didn't know I had any musical ability so I was intrigued by his assessment.  According to him, I was capable of doing anything in the world, playing music was just the tip of the iceberg.  His total, utter belief in me was staggering.  He was such a large figure - a huge personality.  To think this dude believed in my as-so-far-unseen talent was heartening.  On his own, he determined that I needed to play the piano because young ladies played the piano.  My Mamaw agreed and the next thing I knew, I had a piano in my living room.  Rank's criteria for the gift was that I had to get lessons and learn to play The Shifting Whispering Sands by the Sons of the Pioneers.  And I did take lessons for five years and I went to a neighbor's house in Benham, KY to play the song he requested whenever he wanted.  I committed it to memory.  And I played the keys off that piano.  I didn't realize the gift that he gave me would be so enduring.  He gave me the gift of music - to calm me in the storm, to complement my thoughts, and to celebrate my joy. Music became a secret world that I could escape to when people thought I was weird or a geek.  In my mind, while I played my Papaw's piano, I was Mozart or Bach, Beethoven or Chopin, Liszt performing for the masses.  A great ego booster for a tween.

His ingenuity was well-known.   He could engineer complex solutions to most electrical and plumbing difficulties with not much more than black electrical tape and wire strippers.  He was a force to be reckoned with - he was a force of nature.

When my son refused to be potty-trained, it was Papaw's idea that solved the problem.  He said, get that boy something he wants, and then make him wait for it.  My mom bought a super-soaker water gun that she let Jack pick out.  He was so excited.  They got home from Walmart, filled it up, he got to shoot it for 1 minute then my mother took it away and said - "when you're ready to be a big boy and pee in the potty, you can have the gun."  My son raged for three days before running to the back porch, jerking down his pants and peeing on her flowers.  When he pulled up his pants, his little face in a sort of righteous anger, he said, "I DESERVE to play with that water gun."  And after that, he never even had an accident.  All because Rank understood how to motivate  Jack to action.  He knew how to motivate anyone.  His real gift was truly understanding the human condition.  He made no excuses, he felt no judgement, he gave his opinion if asked, and he minded his own business.

I am glad that my son got to know him.  He enjoyed my hubby's company, always calling him Jacob even though his name is Jay.  He was always glad to see me, even though I played Lyle Lovett's I Loved You Yesterday once about 10 times until he cried over a broken love affair.  I was not able to appreciate him then - I was so angry over my Mamaw's passing that I took a lot of that anger out on him.  But I was wrong to do that.  He was good to my Mamaw and he didn't want to be alone after her passing.  Hell, who wants to be alone anyway?

I think of him often.  When I do, I always smile.  I will never know another seventh son - I hope no one gets the thrush.

Peacocks do not like flash photography

Entering into the life of a poultry fancier was not a decision that I made lightly.  I thought about it for nearly two years before finally deciding that I would not be able to live a complete life without having a few chickens to feed and the ability to gather eggs.  It all started in March with 10 baby chicks... called diddles if you're country or doodles if you're really country (thanks, Donna - I had to use that phrase!).  I had no idea that raising 10 chickens would change my life.

First of all, I had no real idea what I was doing.  Of course, I was raised on a farm, around chickens, and had even been given a fancy bantam hen and chicks when I was four from a favorite uncle.  After I reached into the cage and pulled out a beautiful fuzzy chick with my chubby little hands, the mother hen immediately flogged me into next week.  Granted, in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have run and screamed, it did nothing to calm the bird.  My mom finally caught me and pulled the hen off my head.  I still had the baby chick in my hand, safe and sound.  My mom made my uncle take them back and thus ending my chicken career prematurely.

So, fast-forward 35+ years, and I'm my own boss and I can get chickens if I want to, yada yada.  My son and I make the visit to Tractor Supply to look at the baby chicks and make the purchase.  We chose 5 each from two different containers, bought a bag of starter feed, a waterer, a feeder, heat lamps, and promptly went home to begin the work.  My son quickly lost interest in the babies because of the incredible stench that little chickens can make within a day.  It was a labor of love, I was convinced that these babies needed me and I fed, watered, cleaned and doctored the little things religiously.  They thrived and grew and were beautiful! I quickly realized that they were too small to be outside on their own.

My darling hubby built a chicken coop on the side of an outbuilding, taking great care to make sure it was insulated and critter-proof.   And then, the love of my life, light of my world, my fabulous husband, brought home three hens - two white leghorns and a sumatra.  I didn't know what they were called when he brought them, I only knew they were beautiful and I wanted to take care of them.   Of course, they needed protection.  The kind of protection only a man can provide.

I found the rooster for us - christened Jay-Feather by my son after his father - at the flea market.  I can tell you that I have never felt closer to my country roots then when I purchased my beautiful rooster (a buff orpington) from a older lady out of the back of a pick-up truck.  I could almost feel my grandfather's approval float down to me from heaven.  Jay-Feather was a beautiful bird and he promptly became the "man" of the hen house.  He was everything you would want in a rooster, he was kind to babies, gentle with the ladies, and responsible about his duties.  Actually, you probably couldn't ask for more from any man either.  He ruled the roost with a gentle wing.

The day finally came to bring the babies from the basement into the light of the outside world.  It was mid-April and the diddles were chicks now, fully-feathered.  They were a beautiful reddish gold and they were 7 hens and 3 roos.  I was so excited to bring them outside to meet their house mates.  I knew Jay-Feather would be good to them and watch over them when I was asleep.  And he did...
Right up until a beloved, trusted dog of many years decided to dig into the fenced hen yard and create chaos in the coop.  I still can hardly talk about it.  The betrayal, the blood and the chicks MIA.  Jay-Feather had done his job but he was left dying in the coop doorway.  The hens were slaughtered and half-eaten.  There wasn't a baby chick to be seen.  I was as devastated as the coop.  My heart was broken for both my lost chickens and my lost pet.  The rules of farm life are harsh sometimes.  Once a dog kills a chicken, it's nearly impossible to keep them from doing it again.  The dog was older and set in her ways.  She left the farm.

I had worked so hard to keep these birds happy and healthy and to lose them all in one swoop, from an area that been designed to be safe, was crushing.  I sat on the porch in a daze, sad for so many things, when my dad said that I might ought to go look in the hen house that there was no way the dog could have ate all those chickens.  I walked down to the coop with hope caught in my throat.
Peeking out of the hen house door was Sheba, my favorite chick.  She peeped and ran to me, along with two of her sisters.  They had been hiding under the hen house, escaping through a hole that went unnoticed.  I picked her up and felt my hope being restored.  Soon after, more chickens were added to the mix, Brahmas, silkies, ameraucanas, speckled Sussex, three or four different kinds of guineas, Muscovy ducks (my son's favorites) and finally, five magnificent peafowl named Charlie, Lady Di, Fric, Frac, Gracie, and Lydia.


Which brings me to the title of my story - I have found via experience that peacocks are very moody birds.  I have always coveted peafowl feathers and have always thought they were the most majestic birds of the farm.  And I have learned that all these things are true, and I've learned a lot more...  Peafowl coo to each other, in soothing baby-like mews, and in the next breath they can honk as loud as a Volkswagen.  Peafowl are beautiful and gentle and yet they cannot stand to be around any bird that isn't like them.  My peafowl let me enter their enclosure without so much as a passing glance but they completely freak out whenever anyone else even looks inside.  They are a paradox - full of contradictions. 

And because I'm me, and have been known to be a complete idiot sometimes, I wanted to take a photograph for posterity.  I used my old digital camera with the auto-flash feature.  The enclosure has a shaded area so the auto-flash flashed.  The birds jumped into the roof of the enclosure without batting an eye and made the most horrifying screech I have ever heard.  I felt certain that I was near the flogging of my life and was prepared with arms up and hands over my face.  And you know what... as quickly as they freaked out, they calmed down.  The big India blue named Charlie gave me a look that was similar to Sean Penn's expression around the paparazzi.  I felt like that was my warning and since I wanted to keep my camera, I silently left the enclosure.  I got what I deserved I suppose - the picture was blurred.

Pumpkins, Ghosts and Things that Go Bump in the Night

I LOVE HALLOWEEN!!!!  I cannot say it enough.  It is my favorite holiday of all time.  It is perfect!  Family does not come in from far-flung locations and stay at your house so you can’t walk around in a t-shirt with holes in it; you don’t have to cook for days on end; you can eat all the chocolate you want and nobody gives you a second glance; and it’s okay to scare the beJesus out of people.  Truly, its perfection does not even compare to other holidays, like Christmas (nerve-wrecking), Thanksgiving (exhausting), or Easter (actually, I really like Easter too, so maybe I need to rethink that one).

It makes me happy to hear the Monster Mash on the radio and see the old B movie vampires and creatures from the black lagoon wrecking havoc on unsuspecting town folk.  I love the creepiness of a good scary movie and I have been known to sit-up late at night to watch a documentary on monster hunting.  I even like candy corn… and that’s saying something.  It is my favorite time of year.

I know I tend to wax poetic about Fall and all that jazz, but Halloween is something entirely different!  Nothing says class like a bunch of pumpkins sitting on your porch in various states of decay.  Nothing says awesome like a pile of leaves waiting for a child to jump into.  Nothing says Halloween like October 31!

Maybe its immaturity on my part, but I enjoy a good costume party!  I love to get all gobbed up into someone else’s personality for the evening.  This year, I was Maleficient - the evil Queen of the Fairies from Sleeping Beauty.  This may be the best costume I have ever had… it is complete with the wicked headdress and crow on a stick.  I looked good in it too… in fact, I looked so good, that my Mom says that I am scary.  Like I know enough to be Maleficient.  I took it as a compliment, but it was a back-handed insult.  My Mom is good at those, bless her heart!  But my constant fascination with Halloween has unnerved her for many years.  Let’s begin at the beginning…

I was one of those weird kids that could read before they were two years old.  Granted, my Mom influenced my sense of the macabre since she used to read Edgar Allen Poe to me as a child.  The tell-tale heart made goosebumps go up my spine.  The melodies of Poe’s language and the thump-thump beating of the imagined heart were enough to inspire my young self to take up pencil in hand and draw pictures that I can only imagine were illustrations to this masterpiece.  She took me to see Psycho AT THE MOVIES when I was three.  She wonders why I was an insomniac for most of my childhood…

As I grew up, I became completely, utterly fascinated with all things vampire.  Bela Lugosi made a dapper count with his heavy accent and piercing eyes.  I saw Dracula before Nosferatu, which scared the beJesus out of me.  I was lucky enough to see the movie “Dracula” with Frank Langella, fresh off-Broadway.  He oozed sex appeal and created a neo-romantic count in my imagination.  My cousin David was a comic book nut and had a copy of Vampirella.  Elvira was a constant fixture of the 80′s.  And, then came Anne Rice’s Vampire Lestat when I was 16 and at Governor’s Scholars at the University of Kentucky.  I devoured that book in two days.   When Bram Stoker's Dracula came out in the 90′s, I was there for the first midnight showing.  And Shadow of a Vampire, the pseudo-documentary of Nosferatu, chilled my heart but in a good way.  I suppose I was a traditionalist.  When True Blood began appearing on HBO, I was there from Day 1!  I read the books, I watched each episode, and I even found myself scouring the internet for minisodes.  I do love vampires.

But another booming facet of Halloween is the misunderstood monster – take zombies for example.  What are they but folks just trying to get along the best they can, dealing with that they have to deal with?  So they eat a few brains?  No big deal… TV does that on a daily basis.  As far as the best flicks go – Shaun of the Dead is a classic and Zombieland was hilarious!  Twinkie anyone?  Other misunderstood monsters are the werewolves – and I must admit, the whole idea of the shapeshifter is something that I find very compelling.

Flashback to young adulthood when I found the most terrifying story I have ever read – Peter Straub’s “Ghost Story.”  Although it was made into a movie, that didn’t totally suck, there is nothing that compares to the book.  The feral nature of the ghosts and the legend created by four friends who managed to get themselves into a situation that they could not escape throughout their very old lives.  There is a Biblical passage that says something to the effect of children paying for the sins of their fathers… this book has an arc that pays homage to that idea.  There is Native American mythology wrapped around the plot as well – it’s definitely a wonderful book.  Much like “Wolfen” – another interesting take on the werewolf myth.  Of course, popular films like “Silver Bullet,” “The Howling,” and “Wolf” continue to bring new fans to the genre, they are missing that subtlety that really claims attention.

Perhaps in a very real way I find that I can identify with these monsters.  Their social outcasts 9 times out of 10, they are loners, they are looking for some sort of fulfillment that is missing from their lives – undead or quasi-real.  Perhaps it is that loneliness about them that draws me to them, that element of danger that they all possess, something akin to a kid playing with matches that doesn’t fear them until he’s burned but just stares in fascination at the fire.  I will continue to be fascinated!