Month: October 2021

In an impulsive moment, I suggested to Chris and Edwin that we watch one of the Michael Myers Halloween movies. The original one looms large in the scary movies of my child room- well, tween-hood to be precise, so I’ve always been curious about what I’ve missed In the undead saga. We picked the one that came out in 2017 (I think).

I spent the whole hour and a half yelling at the screen, shielding my eyes, and plugging my ears. Then when it was time to pick up Maxine, I turned on all the interior lights in the car and checked the back seats and hatchback before getting in. Why do I do this to myself?

Some friends in the neighborhood began holding a Halloween party/ pumpkin carving contest when our kids were toddlers. For a number of years they held it in their backyard. Parents of youngsters relished the evening out, even as they vigilantly guarded their overconfident toddlers from teetering down stone stairs in their beautiful backyard and veering across the front lawn into the street.

As the party grew over the years, they moved the operation to the front of the house, officially blocking off the street. Everyone brought a dish to share, and the pumpkin carving contest endured

The pandemic brought a halt to the event, but it roared back to life tonight. We oldies turned out, our teenagers made appearances, and the music played as we caught up with familiar faces. Newer parents were on the scene with their little ones, and I took comfort in the reassurance that traditions endure and we’re all still seeking connection.

My dad is one of the gentlest and most devoted family men you’ll ever meet. He’s most content when he’s with my mom, and he’s never seemed to want much more than to just hang out with all of us.

He’s never been passionate about home improvement; Home Depot is a dirty word in his lexicon. When the gutters needed cleaning, he’d open the bedroom windows and run a golf club through them (since he’s advanced in age now, we call someone to do that, and believe it or not, they don’t use a golf club).

When he discovered that the water pipes in the cabinet under the bathroom sink hadn’t been properly insulated and would freeze up in the winter because they’re against an exterior wall, his solution was to leave the cabinet door open at night. This became part of the regular wintertime routine.

His name being Bill, my mom playfully calls him Willy at times. A remedy like the bathroom cabinet came to be referred to in our home as a “Willy fix.”

Other Willy fixes have involved coat hangers and duct tape or just plain old denial.

I remember when the washing machine would overflow during the rinse cycle, and my parents’ remedy was to hang out within earshot of the machine so that when you heard the water filling up the pipe in the back, you’d rush into the laundry room, stick your finger in the pipe and, as soon as you felt water hit it, shut off the water and let it drain. Repeat this about three times, and you’re home free: the machine could safety resume its cycle.

Now that my parents are nearly 80, my sisters, our husbands, and I have taken over home repair and improvement, and the Willy fix has become a dying art. Though the Willy fix inclination ran strong in our blood for a time, it has been tempered by our spouses’ insistence on doing things the “right” way.

Where’s the fun in that? Aren’t you missing out on something when a laundry cycle does not require acute listening skills and the ability to be quick on your feet? The machine speaks a language in which I had become well- versed. Now it’s just a machine that goes about its business while I nearly forget it’s even there.

And it tastes so good.

Years ago, I was at the Sunday Columbia Pike farmers market and noticed a stand with the most beautiful greens on display. I recognized arugula, a robust salad mix, and something that resembled bok choi. Colors ranged from pale green to deep pine to purple.

A cheerful farmer with a wiry build, piercing eyes, and a short beard greeted customers and swiftly rang people up (we would soon come to refer to him affectionately as Farmer Brett). I noticed a flyer on his table with information about subscribing.

A month later, I was swinging by a fellow subscriber’s porch on my way home from work every Thursday to retrieve our bounty of various greens, sweet potatoes, early fall peachy mama peppers, fresh eggs, and other goodies from the field and sometimes the cellar (preserves of some sort or another). When spring arrived, we brightened up our living room with a tall bouquet of flowering quince from the farm.

The summer bounty brought yellow potatoes, tomatoes of all sorts, cucumbers, okra, fresh herbs, the coveted pint of flavor-packed petite strawberries, and other treasures.

In the early years, we split a subscription with another couple, but as our families grew, a full share became necessary. We took our kids down to the farm in St. Mary’s Country for Labor Day celebrations, letting the kids run after chickens and touring the fields.

After about ten years, we decided to take a break. I believe it was a couple winters of an overabundance of turnips due to frigid weather that pushed us over the edge.

As I was whipping up a batch of salad dressing last spring, following a recipe from Farmer Brett’s summer cookbook, I decided to search him up online to see how the farm was doing. It was alive and well and really sounded the same, except they now pack their greens and herbs in biodegradable bags instead of ziplocks.

Twenty minutes later I had my subscription forms filled out and a check made out to Even’ Star Farms. We immensely enjoyed a summer of the flavorful tomatoes, cucs, and whatnot, but the real party started today. We picked up our first winter share, and it contained a bag of those magical greens that first drew me to the table about 16 years ago. It’s so good to be back.

I love the contrasts between my kids. Edwin’s extracurricular activities include Model UN, gardening club, and Energy Masters. Maxine’s soccer season will conclude this weekend, and she’ll audition for her school’s production of 9 to 5 in a couple weeks. In the meantime, she has set her sights on Cookie Club, of which a good friend of hers is the founding member.

She and her friend are whipping up a batch of chocolate chip cookies as I type this. As we drove back from the ransacked Halloween shop this evening after purchasing fake blood and liquid latex for her costume, she informed me that she had to bake cookies for cookie club tonight.

“So, what do you do in cookie club? Make cookies and eat them?”

“Well, that and also sell them. For charity.”

“What charity?”

“I don’t know…breast cancer?” she answered.

Humm. Her heart is in the right place, but I think she needs to find out more at tomorrow’s first meeting of CC (and she better be planning on giving me a cookie).

My new book arrived yesterday: The Price You Pay for College by Ron Lieber. A friend recommend it for those of us eyeing the labyrinth of the college admission process lurking just around the corner.

As of now, I know very little about the whole thing. It was pretty simple when I applied back in 1989. My dad said I had the Virginia schools to choose from, so we visited campuses and I sent off my applications. In the spring, I got back a few acceptances and made my choice. Done.

Here we are 32 years later, and I know enough to know that I have almost everything to learn. Ron Lieber, a seasoned New York Times financial columnist with college-age kids of his own, appears to have the 411 on what we should look for in a college, what we should expect to pay, what we should expect to get in return, and answers to other questions we don’t even know we have yet.

I am under no illusion that he has the secret to avoiding the colossal price tag of attending a four-year college, but I can at least proceed wisely and with eyes wide open.

Mondays have been our busiest evening this fall. Maxine has soccer practice at the northwest corner of Arlington, followed by a piano lesson in Falls Church.

I rush to get dinner ready early so she and I can eat and be out the door by 5:40. She sheds her jewelry and puts on her cleats as we near the fields, and after I swing into a parking space, take a swig of water, and hit the outdoor run workout on my watch, I head off toward the gently rolling, heavily tree-canopied roads of the toney neighborhood.

I try to hit 4.5 miles before I step onto the edge of the soccer field and beckon to Maxine 10 minutes before practice is over so we can rush to her lesson and arrive about 10 minutes late. I figure it’s fair to split the difference between the two. I’ve always equally respected athletics and music, and this exacting split satisfies this notion.

After an hour sitting in the piano studio lobby, usually reading or working on my laptop, she emerges and we head home, arriving close to 8:30. I’m usually feeling pretty ready for bed at this point.

This evening, as we were about to make the 25-minute drive to soccer practice, dark clouds gathered, the wind picked up, and rain began to fall. It took me about two seconds to decide to skip soccer. I texted a friend and fellow piano parent and took her up on her earlier offer to take Maxine to piano (our kids have been part of a group piano lesson since they were preschoolers).

Suddenly, my evening stretched out gracefully in front of me. I seized on it. I did a HIIT workout, showered, heated up a bowl of homemade potato soup, and then tucked into my book. I owe it all to the rain I hear pitter-pattering in a steady beat on the skylights right now (and my piano mom friend).

Two years ago I drove four seventh graders out to Cox Farms in Chantilly for a night of fun-filled jump scares involving creepy clowns, chainsaw wielding actors chasing us around a corn field, and mannequins interspersed with real people in black robes and white masks ala Scream. It was a fun night, but definitely left a mark.

Since we were first-timers, we did not understand the importance of arriving right when it opened and making a bee line to the ticket counter to get our pre-purchased general admission tickets time-stamped for the three events the tickets included. I did the biggest double-take of my life when I looked at our assigned times: 10:50 PM. What? Surely this was a mistake. Nope. No mistake.

We had nearly three hours to kill on a very chilly night. Fortunately for me, we had met up with another mom and two girls. We huddled together, wandering around the property and obsessively checking the time. A few attractions ate up 10 minutes here and there: a pitch-black shack to feel your way through, popcorn and cider to purchase, and a hypnotist working a crowd of amused (and very UNhypnotized) teens.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the girls had been texting her mom, asking her to make the 40-minute drive to pick her up because she decided she was too scared to go through with the upcoming events. The other mom waited with her by the pick-up area while I headed into the corn maze with the rest of the kids. After about 20 minutes of clutching onto each other, shrinking past creepy hanging doll heads, and running from the chainsaw man, we emerged breathless from the corn field and were ready to head to our next event: the haunted hay ride.

By that time, another in our group wasn’t feeling up to par. As the other mom returned from the nervous tween hand-off, I volunteered to sit with shaky tween #2 as the others hopped onto the wagon and headed off across the field. I tried to make small talk with her, but she was only up for weak smiles and one-world responses.

Finally, the third and final event had arrived: The Forest Back 40. I’m not sure what the 40 was for, but it was creepy. Luckily, the shaky girl rallied, and we headed off into the woods to be groped by fake hands on sticks poking through unexpected gaps in trees and spooked by the aforementioned figures in Scream masks. It was actually the nicest part of the evening, since we had room to breathe and forest provided shelter from the chilly night air.

When we emerged from the quarter mile adventure, we hit the restrooms and then piled into the car. Thankfully, 66 was pretty empty of other cars, and we made the drive back in good time. It was past 1:00 am by the time I climbed into bed, and I vowed never to do that again…

…until last night. However, I now knew how to handle Fields of Fear; plus, now that they’re 14, they don’t have to be accompanied by an adult. This is how it went this year:

My friend and I drove our daughters and two friends to Cox Farms, depositing them promptly at 7:10 PM with explicit directions to head straight to get times assigned. When the car door slammed closed, we were off. Ten minutes later, Maxine’s text came in: they had been assigned the times for the three events: 7:30, 8:00, and 8:30. After a 20-minute drive, we arrived in the charming town of Clifton, found a parking spot about a block from Trattoria Villaggio, and got a table right away. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and great conversation. I texted Max that we would pick them up no later than 10:00. They opted for 10:00. Great, we had time for decaf coffee.

We arrived back at Cox Farms at 9:55, found a spot close to the exit, and four happy and chatty fourteen-year-olds piled into the car, bringing the smell of cool night air, wood smoke, and popcorn with them.

I think this is the way to do Fields of Fear.

Oh, and the girl who went home early two years ago was a champ this year.

Both kids have been properly spooked once again this year at Cox Farm’s annual Fields of Fear. Although I had a major driving role again, it was much more civilized. More on that tomorrow. Bedtime.

Because:

I am enjoying apples again after shunning them around mid-June.

I put on a vest to walk Sasha with Chris.

We sat around a fire with the waning gibbous hiding behind the tree branches.

I have plans for the canned pumpkin purée.

My purple and orange Halloween lights have arrived.

My coffee has steam coming off it in the morning.

And most of all because the cats are cuddlier with the change in the weather.