Halloween Scrooge

We are not doing Halloween this year.

There, I've said it for all to see and now will have to follow through (I'm a brown-noser that way).

When our boys were young, Halloween was a big deal. There were Halloween parties at school, costume parties at the rec center and the annual neighborhood haunted house to visit. We'd put a flying witch on the door, carved pumpkins on the steps and ghosts in the front window. Costumes were different every year and usually made up from whatever was around (no pre-made store-bought stuff).

The number of trick or treaters has been slowly dwindling over the years. Twenty to thirty years ago, we'd get well over one hundred children coming to the door. Sometimes we'd run out of treats and have to recycle some of the candies from our boys when they got home. Ten years ago, we'd still get around eighty to one hundred. Last year, only twelve children came and half of them were neighbours and their friends from across the street. We ended up eating the leftover candies - not such a good thing for the waistline.

It's rather sad, but I understand why parents aren't taking or letting their children out for Halloween any more. In the last decade, there seem to be more reports of tainted treats, random attacks and vandalism (not in our neighborhood, mind you - except for teens smashing pumpkins at the end of the night) - enough to scare any parent of young children. I'm not sure these are so much real threats to the average neighborhood as they are sensationalized, isolated incidents. At any rate, the trend seems to be towards events at shopping centers and malls. Mom and dad dress the tykes up and take them to the nearest mall where the merchants hand out (supposedly) safe treats in a safe, fluorescent environment. Everyone stays clean, warm and dry. No more creepy shadows. No more spooky, strange houses. No more bumps in the night.

We've shelled out treats for Halloween ever since we moved into our first house almost thirty-five years ago. Well, no more. We can't compete with the malls and shopping centers and we don't need leftover candy.

So tonight, we're leaving the front porch light off, ordering take-out and watching the hockey game on TV.

Any ghosts or goblins that might happen to knock on our door will have to float on down the street because we're not answering.

The Letter G

(Another Encyclopedia of Me blog

G is for Games
In the last decade, console games like X-Box, Nintendo 360, Playstation and Wii have overtaken pc games in popularity. But darn it all, I miss those old computer games!

They were a pain to install – drivers to download, graphics cards to tweak or upgrade – and by today's standards, they were clunky and slow. Yet I have such fond memories of them.

Okay, to look at me, you wouldn't think I was a computer game junkie. But let me tell you, I spent more hours than you might imagine, late at night (and the kids were in bed) trying to work the catapult in BIT, wandering the lonely, spooky levels of Myst, and following clues to the underworld of Grim Fandango with Manny. Hours I will never get back - but oh so much fun. The games I liked best were puzzle oriented. I wasn't good at shoot 'em up or sports games. Give me a good puzzle any day.

A few of my all-time favourites (in no particular order):

• Myst
  
• The Dig
  
• King's Quest V, VI and VII
  
• Buried In Time
  
• The Curse of Monkey Island
  
• Grim Fandango
  
• Zork

. . . and I finished them all!


G is for Gorgeous George
Does anyone remember the wrestler Gorgeous George? I watched him on TV near the end of his career in the early 60s. My grandmother was a wrestling fan (don't ask) and I'd watch along with her, supposedly to translate, but you don't really need to translate wrestling do you. He died at age 48 in 1963.


G is for Girls
When we decided to start a family, I didn't want girls. In fact, I was afraid of foisting my own growing-up insecurities onto them. As it turns out, we had two boys. It worked out for the best. Now that I'm older and hopefully wiser, I'd be fine with girls – but not back then.

When I look at pictures of myself from childhood, I don't appear nearly as ugly, geeky and awkward as I thought at the time.

Girls: That's me on the left

F is for Family or Faking It

An Encylopedia of Me blog

When I grew up in the fifties and early sixties, a normal family consisted of a mother, a father and an average of 2.5 children. The ideal dream of mom and dad, kids, dog, and house in the suburb with picket fence was alive and booming along with the babies. TV shows like Ozzie and Harriet, Father Knows Best and Leave It To Beaver helped further promote the ideal.

Families always lived in their own house in the suburbs. They might have had problems (but funny ones), mom and dad might argue (but always made up), and the worst a teen could do was get caught smoking (cigarettes).

Jokes about the one-half children aside, any deviation from this norm was seen as an aberration.

Atypical families with divorced or single parents were looked upon with a mixture of scorn in the case of the divorced; and pity or scandalous outrage in the case of single (unwed) parents. Mostly, people didn't talk about it in polite company.

I remember when I was in third grade and the class found out the mother of one of the boys was to remarry. It was only then, that we discovered – GASP – she was Divorced! She and John had been living on their own without a father in the house! The older girls (grades five and six) spread talk about scarlet women and being loose (or was it loose scarlet women?). Whatever they were talking about, I could only conjure up the image of John's pretty mother in a red crinolined dress. Up until then, I don't think anyone even knew John didn't live with his father; and the only reason any of this came to light at all was because John had to change his surname to match that of his new father -- heaven forbid that he'd have to go through life with a different last name.

Which comes to me. I spent the better part of my childhood pretending to be like the other - what I thought to be - typical kids and their families. Like all children, I wanted to fit in and be liked. Never mind the fact that I wasn't white in a predominantly white community. I wanted friends to think that I was like them.

During my public school years, I lived with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins in varying combinations and households. I only lived with both parents in a "typical" family unit until about age two when my mother died. I never lived with my father again, despite the fact he remarried and had a new family. From my recollection, I lived in seven different households for varying lengths of time by the time I finished high school. - So much for the typical family scenario. - Awhile ago, I found all my old report cards and counted five different "parent" signatures on the backs.

Given the reality of my situation, it wasn't easy learning how to fake it. But fake it, I did. If anyone asked me what my father did, I'd tell them he was a business manager. If they asked whether I had brothers and sisters, I'd say no (they were only half-siblings after all). I didn't lie – I just didn't elaborate. I never asked school friends to come over and play or the jig would have been up. I went to friends' birthday parties, but I always declined the offer to have one of my own. I soldiered on with my semi-truths until high school when it was quite obvious I was living with the family of louder and more outgoing cousins.

In retrospect, I'm sure the teachers and some of the parents knew my real background, but it would have been impolite to mention it back then.

Some people bemoan the decline of the traditional Ozzie and Harriet family. Maybe there was no such beast. Maybe there were more non-traditional families out there than we ever wanted to acknowledge. I'm glad things have changed. I'm glad we view families differently and that it's okay to say you have a single parent or a divorced parent, or that you live with relatives. No more faking it.

B is for Broken *

When I was about six years old, I had a walking doll.

She looked a little like this:

Walking dolls were all the rage in the 50s and mine had been given to me as a Christmas present. She was about twenty inches high and was the most beautiful doll I'd ever owned.

One summer afternoon, when we'd run out of things to do and boredom was setting in, my cousin, Bobby, decided that it would be interesting to try and open up the doll and see what was inside. I thought it would be interesting too, but didn't think it was such a good idea.

Cousin Bobby persisted. He assured me that it would be okay. It would be like an operation and we'd be able to put her back together again. He "promised". What did I know? He was a whopping two months older than me and always took charge about these things. Against my better judgment, I agreed.

We found a pair of my grandmother's sewing scissors and Bobby set to work. With the pointy-end of the scissors, he poked a hole through the rubbery skin. Then snip, snip, snip through her chest. She was full of white cottony stuffing. Next, he twisted off her head. Well, that was interesting. It was mostly hollow but we could see how her eyes rolled up and down inside the sockets.

We were giggling and probably making quite a racket when my grandmother came up behind us. She looked at the doll, took away the scissors and told us to clean up the mess, then walked away. That's when I took a good look at what we'd done. Legs, arms and head had been twisted off and bits of stuffing lay amid the doll clothes that we'd been so careful to remove.

There was no way we'd ever put that doll back together. She was utterly broken and I was heartbroken. For days afterward, tears welled up in my eyes every time I thought about it. It was Bobby's idea, but my own decision to go along with him.

Bobby got a spanking over this episode, but no one spoke to me again about what we'd done. I was never reprimanded or punished. I think the family knew our destruction of the doll was punishment enough.


* Another Encylopedia of Me blog.

The real me

Today, I've done something I've been reluctant (scared) to do since I started blogging. It may not seem like much to most of you, but for me, it's a biggie. I've posted a photo of myself in my Blogger profile.

I've always had a certain paranoia and self-consciousness about revealing too much about myself online. Slowly, but surely, I've been getting over it by writing on this blog.

As I surfed around the blogosphere and got to read and know other bloggers through their writing - some of which was highly personal and intimate - I felt better about revealing more about my real life. I'll never be a tell-all type of blogger, but I'm not quite so paranoid anymore.

Another fear I've had is one of showing pictures of myself to others. As a child I always thought I was ugly and hated to see photos of myself. My cousins were always prettier and cuter. I was the ugly duckling. I've been stuck in that mindset ever since. I've decided it's time to get over it.

So, inspired by numerous bloggers who have their pictures front and centre on their blogs, I've taken the leap to put up my photo. And since November 19th was my two year anniversary on the Pomegranate Tiger - which I completely forgot - what better way to celebrate than to finally post a picture.

Now, just in case I later chicken out and remove the pic from my profile, I'll imbed it in this post so it won't just disappear. It's cropped from a group photo taken very recently in October 2007.

Musical Theatre (or for the Americans out there, "theater")

I was reading Here In The Hills' blog celebrating her 400th post and listening to the embedded YouTube clips of Audra McDonald.

(For those of you who don't know, Audra McDonald is a wonderful actress/singer and multiple Tony Award winner. If I had to name anyone that I felt was born for Broadway musical theatre, she'd be near - if not at - the top of the list.)

Anyways, watching Ms McDonald and listening to the Gershwin and Stephen Sondheim songs reminded me how much I love musical theatre. It combines all things theatrical that I love -- dancing, singing, and acting – and when done right, wraps them into a larger than life spectacle that lingers long after the final curtain.

My love of musicals started way back in childhood when, as an unsupervised eight year old, I'd watch late-night Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I dreamed of being a dancer.

Later, in high school, I lived with relatives who bought cast albums of all the Broadway hit musicals of the time. I knew the lyrics to Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel and West Side Story and My Fair Lady and Sound of Music. I joined the school choir from elementary school through to high school graduation. I sang in my head, I sang in the bathroom, I sang under the covers in my bed (I was a strange and nerdy kid). I was in the chorus of our high school musicals. I dreamed of being a Broadway actress.

Alas, I had a fair to middling voice at best; suitable for large choirs or school choruses, but not Broadway. I went on to other dreams and life has unfolded as it was meant (i.e. no one has to hear me sing in public).

But through the years, I've remained a fan of musical theatre and so I thank Naomi at Here In The Hills for the reminder and for the Audra McDonald clips.

Now, it's time to go dust off some scratchy old LPs and listen to Camelot and Fiddler On The Roof.

Harrison Hot Springs - revisited

Growing up, my family, along with other fifties post-war families took weekend drives as a form of recreation in the summer.

We'd pile into my uncle's station wagon with beach blankets, snacks, playing cards and assorted beach paraphernalia; the 'we' being an assortment of cousins, aunts and uncles. There being no such thing as seatbelt laws, we'd cram as many bodies as possible into that poor vehicle; usually six adults who would occupy the two front bench seats and at least as many kids crammed into the back compartment (I cringe when I think about it now, but that's the way it was back then).

The cousins would sit, backs to the side windows, feet towards the middle, staggered and stacked like sardines in a can. The lucky ones got pillows to lean against, but mostly we just took it for granted that we'd end the trip a bit battered and with numb bums.

I'm sure kids of today would be appalled at such cramped, primitive quarters -- being accustomed to SUVs with swivel captain's chairs, air-conditioning and built-in DVD and CD players -- but we thought it was cool. It was a time to bond: we'd sing, argue, play Volkswagen-no-return, fall asleep slumped onto an adjacent shoulder, tell silly jokes, and laugh till it hurt. I'm not sure how the adults survived the noise. They must have had secret earplugs.

One of the places we'd drive to was Harrison Hot Springs. It was a long drive. Air-conditioning consisted of all windows open, including the window of the back tailgate and feet sticking out to catch a bit of the breeze. By the time we arrived, we'd be wobbly with half-asleep pin-prickly feet and legs. But it didn't seem to matter. We'd roll out of that old station wagon and head straight for the water. Meanwhile, the adults would set up a picnic under a willow tree and wait for us to realize how hungry we were. In retrospect, I doubt they were in much of a hurry to corral us back in and enjoyed a bit of quiet in the shade, sans kids.

All these memories came back to me when I spent a few days this past week at Harrison. It's still a very small resort town, as resort towns go. It's had a few setbacks over the years, but seems to be hanging in there. There are condos and boutique stores now, but it still caters to families who just want to picnic and hang out at the beach.

Some things never change: Kids, dogs, water


Some things do: Cool sand sculptures