Three tricks, you’re out

Living a quarter-mile off the beaten path has had its advantages. A $2 pumpkin and one small bag of treats usually does the trick on Halloween.

This year, like always, I picked out the perfect pumpkin for my daughter. What was I thinking?!!? The 14-year-old spent the entire weekend with a friend and treated Oct. 31 like any other school night. Jack is still on a post outside the front door without a lantern. Trick one!

I was ready with my devil mask to answer when opportunity knocked; but not one little witch, pirate or super hero swooped in for treats. Trick two!

I bought KrispStix instead of one of my favorite candies. Again, what was I thinking?!!? I could be sipping a glass of wine with Mr. Goodbar every night till Thanksgiving. Trick three! I’m out!

What a diss-advantage.

The KrispStix I’ll share with my work family. For those reading my blog, here’s some eye candy I found on a vacation trip to Lexington, N.C.

Miss Puffy, The Peppermint Pig  won a Blue Ribbon with Honor at this year’s 4-H Fair.

The Candy Factory took me back 50 years to sweet memories made in G.C. Murphy Co. in historic downtown Brazil, Indiana and Lynch’s Grocery, the best neighbor on the street where I grew up. In the day, a nickel and dime at Murphy’s and a penny at Lynch’s went a long way. Halloween came only once a year, but Lynch’s stocked enough candy to fill the sweet tooth of every kid on the block come allowance day, or birthdays, or Christmas, or the day after Halloween when we would spend the coins Mr. Metz next door  gave out instead of candy. Mr. Metz knew the value of a penny saved, a penny earned. He also knew his 5- and 10-cent treats would burn a hole in our pocket and we’d run straight to Lynch’s candy counter across the street. Funny how Mr. Lynch also knew which candy was our favorites. My dad always said if we had a penny for every red cent we spent at Lynch’s and the Five and Dime we’d be millionaires. Oh, well, I’ll settle for memories worth that and more.


Horror story

Thirty-six years ago today a shrunken, bloody-faced demon with slimy black hair nearly scared me into an early grave. I still carry the physical and emotional scars.

My worst nightmare began in the bone chilling night, a thousand miles from home in the backwoods of North Carolina. (Not Deliverance, but close.)

Something overpowered me in my sleep. I could barely walk and was incoherent by the time they wheeled me to a cold place with walls that moaned every 15 minutes.

The next morning, men in green with empty eye sockets probed my body until I was paralyzed from the waist down. There was a blinding white light. The end was near.  Suddenly, like a scene out of a horror film, an ugly little gremlin plopped on my chest and let out a spine-tingling scream.

In shock and awe, I starred into an impish face only a mother could love.

A few hours later, my precious Gollum looked more like cute little Dobby.  The gore and birthmarks on each cheek of his elongated head had disappeared. He cleaned up real nice for his hospital photo.

Such an unnerving chapter in my life story. I was young and naive and didn’t take birthing classes. I felt so quilty for letting someone nearly twist his head off with a pair of cold, surgical steel forceps. I was scarred for life, but he grew up with a healthy addiction for Halloween masquerades  and a good thriller movie.

Every season my little hobgoblin decorates his house and yard like a Clark Griswold Christmas and wears the ugliest face he can find to scare unsuspecting souls into an early grave.

Take Life to the Matte ©