Halloween

“I was working in the lab late one night
When my eyes beheld an eerie sight
For my monster from his slab began to rise
And suddenly to my surprise
He did the monster mash.”
Bobby “Boris” Pickett

All weekend WXRT was playing Halloween music. The holiday lasts longer and gets more fanfare than when I was a kid. In Fort Washington we sometimes went out the night before (Mischief Night) and soaped windows or set fire to pumpkins on front porches. Mr. Illingworth would hide among the trees in his back yard to thwart anyone venturing onto his property. Occasionally police cars on patrol would threaten to interrupt our fun. Sammy Corey once set off a cherry bomb in an incompetent Math teacher’s mailbox. In the Detroit area people called it Devil’s Night. In Indiana a favorite practice is teepeeing the trees on someone’s property with toilet paper. Thankfully our condo was spared any such mischief. No zombies or coffin-bangers arrived, as my favorite “Monster Mash” verse put it, to wit:
“The scene was rockin’, all were digging the sounds
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds
The coffin-bangers were about to arrive
With their vocal group, ‘The Crypt-Kicker Five’”

On Friday local merchants gave out candy. Before hitting Valparaiso’s commercial district James and Rebecca stopped over dressed like Phineas (from the Disney Channel series “Phineas and Ferb”) and Dorothy (from “The Wizard of Oz”). Trick or tricking took place Saturday in Chesterton and Sunday in Portage, so the kids made out like bandits on both nights. At Maple Place we hardly ever had anyone come to the house except the Bayer and Hagelberg kids when they were young, but at the condo more than a hundred kids showed up, more young teens than tots. Hardly any wore masks, but most had a costume of some kind, even if just a funny shirt or a wig. A couple kids actually said “trick or treat” but not in a threatening way. One neighbor asked James to perform a trick in exchange for a treat and he told a joke. About half our neighbors were home; all but one of the others had their lights out so kids wouldn’t waste their time knocking on their doors. Among our candy were packages containing three malted milk balls. Stalker’s store sold them four for a penny. When I was a kid, neighbors often invited us in to guess who we were. In our Michigan subdivision not only were the houses real close together but most people were newcomers and just passed out candy without guessing who we were. One year when Phil and Dave were young, I dressed up, too, as a western bandit, and ended up with more loot than they did. Around that time there were stories about razors hidden in food and warnings only to accept commercially wrapped items. Probably was what is called an urban myth.

My Fantasy team sucked, what with three players on bye weeks and Donald Driver getting hurt the first time a ball got thrown to him. If it not for Tom Brady, the Packers defense, and Marcus Colston of the Saints having a good game (finally). I’d have been slaughtered. I picked up Seattle running back Marshawn Lynch, and he rushed nine times for seven yards (for a total of zero points). Had I stuck with Ryan Mathews at running back I actually would have won. During commercials and dull parts of games I finished the book about Quanah Parker, who finally appears more than halfway into the narrative but had a remarkable life,

Old classmates still buzzing about the reunion. Wendy Henry Wellin thanked me for having urged her to go. Pete Drake wanted to know who else was in his car when the Abington Cop accused him of hitting another vehicle (Ron Hawthorn for sure and maybe Joe Ricketts and Skip Pollard, I answered). Alice Ottinger Corman wanted to know if I had Jay Bumm’s correct email (she was one of the people snapping a photo of him, Chris Koch, Pete Drake, and me). I called the phone number in the booklet and got wife Betsy, who gave me their home email address. Lee Lee Minhart Devenny reported on her get together with Suzi Hummel and Susan Floyd and how they compared notes on how everyone looked. Talked with Susan on the phone (Terry Jenkins gave me the number but told me not to tell her where I got it) and then sent this email: “I guess I am still on a high (on Cloud Nine is how Connie Heard put it) from the reunion. I would have loved to been at Lee Lee’s to hear the descriptions of the affair. When you mentioned your daughter’s History specialty, it reminded me that Bob Robinson, one of my bowling teammates, who is in his seventies, spent a weekend recently in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, attending a retreat having to do with the 1040s. Three historians gave presentations, one on politics and world events, one on music, and the third on food and fashion. Thinking about food in the Fifties, in addition to the appearance of franchises like McDonald’s one thing I recall is the absence of Mexican restaurants. In fact, when I went to California in 1965, I was struck by the presence of them there. Speaking of food, classmate Eddie Piszek, whose father founding Mrs. Paul’s frozen fish, told me his old man started out peddling crab cakes in the Kensington section of Philadelphia (where my wife Toni grew up) after coming up with a recipe he thought superior to others. From that humble beginning came a fortune from fish sticks.”

Perused online reviews of Nathanial Philbrick’s “Mayflower,” about the Plymouth Colony of English Separatists who left Leiden, Holland, in 1620 to go to America. The Pilgrims arrived in November and half the original colonists died. They wouldn’t have survived had not been for help from Indians (yes, there really was a Squanto, or Tisquantum, who in 1614 had been kidnapped, taken to Europe, learned English, and served as their translator but ended up distrusted and probably poisoned by Wampanoag Indians). King Philip’s War erupted 55 years after their arrival at Plymouth Rock, claimed thousands of lives, and basically doomed the Indians that had co-existed with colonists for over a generation. The book’s title is misleading since the book goes up to 1691 when Plymouth was absorbed into Massachusetts Bay colony. A tear later came the Salem witchcraft trials.

Received the latest edition of the Ayers Realtors newsletter, which contains community announcements as well as property listings (the “Asian Inspired Ranch” built by Pat Lee that intrigued me is still on sale for $269,900). A column by Judy Ayers describes a plane, train, and boat trip through New England and Nova Scotia. She included a recipe for Blueberry grunt (biscuity dumplings smothered in blueberries sweetened with sugar and cinnamon) obtained from her Halifax guide.

Reviewed “Dropping the Torch: Jimmy Carter, The Olympic Boycott, and The Cold War” by Nicholas E. Sarantakes. Hope Choice doesn’t find it to be too much of a summary and not enough of a critique. Because I am not to exceed 200 words, I probably won’t be able to include as introduction this description by wife Margot of why Allan Wells of the United Kingdom won the 100 meters dash by a nose over Silvio Leonard of Cuba. She explained, “There is a Scottish tradition of banging heads in the pubs on Saturday night when looped. It’s called nutting. You try to get your forehead down and break the other man’s nose. That must be the training that won it for him.”

Got an email from former student Brad Smith, who played basketball for the IU Northwest Redhawks a couple years ago. He’s married, has a kid, got an MBA and hopes to go on get his PhD. He had wanted to go into the army Rangers, but fortunately those plans got derailed. Here’s what he said about his subsequent basketball career: “I have played in several semi pro leagues since I left IUN. Some I did very well in and some marginal. I averaged over 20 ppg in my last season for the "Southern Indiana Generals". I made a mighty $700 as the player, coach and general manager. And out of that I had to pay refs and expenses.” I replied: “Congrats on marriage, the baby, and getting an MBA. Maybe it isn’t so bad that you are not a Ranger. If you need a letter of recommendation for a PhD program, let me know.”

Had lunch with English professors Alan Barr, Doug Swartz, and Allison Fagan (whom I had not met previously). None went to the Chancellor’s installation, Alan claiming he looked stupid because of his size in a cap and gown. Allison was very young-looking and attractive, with a little silver loop adorning the bridge of her nose. She recently got her PhD and plans to go through the upcoming ceremony in order to, in her words, please her parents. That prompted me to tell about wearing a peace sign at my PhD ceremony at the University of Maryland in 1970, much to my mother’s displeasure. I also mentioned attending nephew Bobby’s graduation party in Bloomington. He and his housemates were skipping the ceremony, I had learned in advance, so I brought a cap and gown and blank diploma and midway through the party put in on. Saying “By the power vested in me,” I presented him with the diploma. He rolled his eyes at first, but all the parents had their sons put on the cap and gown for photos, so it what I did was a hit.

Ron Cohen dropped in to the Archives after talking to Meg Renslow DeMakas’s students about the history of the Gary school. He brought a page from yesterday’s Post-Trib that contained an article by John Laue criticizing the National Park Service’s decision to demolish all residences in the Edgewater section of the national Lakeshore, in contrast with the Golden gate Recreational Area in San Francisco, which provides lodging for visitors. He wrote: “With the park not having attractive overnight accommodations, it isn’t surprising that most travelers pass through Northwest Indiana without stopping to see what this area has to offer beyond cheap gas and cigarettes, fireworks and casinos.” On the same page war an article by peace activist Carolyn McCrady entitled “Iraq war still on, and costs mount.” It claims we still have 75,000 mercenaries there in addition to 50,000 troops who are in harm’s way. The cost of deploying one soldier for a year is $390,000, she pointed out; and in addition to the 4,420 soldiers who dies, another 32,000 returned with physical wounds and untold thousands with emotional damage. Her piece ends with the Thomas Jefferson quote that “the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”