Who, me? Um, no, thank you. I prefer not to be scared. It’s best for us all, really.

I remember one year, in particular, my cousins were visiting for Halloween. We were at my grandparents when an aunt called to invite us all over to her friend’s house. She thought it would be fun.

Sure, fun like a root canal, maybe. 

Their whole front yard had been turned into a graveyard. Not only did you have to hike up a hill and wind your way through tombstones, but you had to hazard the undead, too. 

The promise of chocolate did not even begin to lure me from the safety of that old, blue, Chevy Malibu wagon. Of course, the undead can smell fear a mile away. Before I knew it, they were lumbering down the hill, arms outstretched, crazed eyes targeted on our car. 

Now, I was old enough to know better. In my mind I was quite aware they were my aunt’s friends, dressed for Halloween; my imagination, on the other hand, knew they could just as easily be fantastical creatures ready ready to suck the life from our very bodies. In which case, you can never be too prepared. So I started screaming. They shambled faster. When a zombie stuck his head in the door, I came completely unhinged, throwing myself back in the seat, and mashing my poor little cousin’s face against the car window–the other side of which, leered a werewolf.

I’ll tell you now, I love you and all, but if zombies do take over the world, it’s every man for himself.  

If you can’t imagine, just think of that episode where Ellen scared her writer . . .

Sure, even I chuckle when I watch the clip; but it’s more nervous laughter. It’s really not that funny.

Interestingly enough, we’re both named Amy, we’re both writers, and we both tend to completely FREAK OUT.

Also, remind me never to go on the Ellen show. 

But I digress . . .

So without further ado, a Happy Halloween to you, my friends–may it be frightfully fun, and not the least bit scary!

Happy National Marshmallow Toasting Day!

You know, I’ve long felt the toasted marshmallow deserved a holiday all its own–especially those marshmallows burnt to a crisp on the outside, and soft like butter on the inside. Let’s just take a moment to reflect on that gooey goodness …

Sigh.

Growing up, toasting marshmallows was as much a part of summer as lemonade and slip n’ slides. We’d head for the hills and find the perfect spot. While dad built us a camp fire, my mom, brother, and I would scour the grounds in search of the perfect roasting sticks. Then we’d all sit down to execute our s’mores preparation.

My parents were meticulous in their tatics, patiently turning their sticks near a bit of smoldering coal to produce the perfectly browned marshmallow. It’s a skill, my friends. After all, there’s a fine line between accomplishment and annihilation. Take the marshmallow out too soon, and it won’t be done; leave it in too long and it will melt right off the stick. As for me, I’ve always taken more of a shock and awe approach: set the ‘mallow ablaze, blow it out, and you’re done. It’s a crispier form of perfection.

One evening, while away at college, the subject of s’mores came up. I’m not sure the context; but through the course of our conversation, a couple of friends mentioned they had never before toasted a marshmallow. Obviously, it was an issue that had to be remedied. Of course, it was late, in the inner city, and nary a car among us. So we made do with what we had–mainly, candles, mini marshmallows, and corn picks.

Just goes to show, you don’t need a camp fire, or even a fire pit, to enjoy the sweetness a toasted marshmallow has to offer. A little flame will do.

So yes, the next time life hands you lemons, by all means, make lemonade. But the next time life cuts the electricity? Make s’mores!

Just in case it’s not on your calendar, today is Name Your Poison Day–otherwise known as Make a-Dad-Gum-Decision Day. Woo-hoo!

You know, I’m fairly good at making certain decisions–when shopping, for instance, I can spot things I love immediately. I’m drawn to them like a moth to flame. Other decisions … not so much. When it comes to the likes of selecting a restaurant {I couldn’t care–I just love to eat}, words of my book {it could always be better}, or the path my life should take {so many options, so little time} I’m decisively indecisive.

Yet, without fail, there comes a time when you simply must choose. The line has been drawn in the sand; you must choose your weapon and stay your course. The path you take may lead straight to your final destination–or, it may be a scenic route. No matter the outcome, you’re on your way. And that, my friends, is always good!

Seems to me, today is the perfect day to set our sights … I don’t know … but I’m pretty sure …

Any big plans?  I’m planning to stay in with my corned beef and cabbage, red potatoes and soda bread.  Not that being asked if I’m pregnant or being accosted by some crazed drunk man doesn’t sound fun–but a nice, quiet evening sounds better.  I think I’ll even forgo the Guinness in favor of Rootbeer.  They’re both dark and frothy; certainly only my gag reflex will be able to tell the difference.

To those who just left in disgust, I hope you’ll come back; to those who stick around despite the fact that I cannot hold my dark ruby stout, thank you.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my friends!

In case you haven’t looked at a calendar, or noticed the splattering of green on this here blog, tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.

We don’t know a lot about Saint Patrick. Legend aside, it seems his work spanned sixty years–and while it aimed for heaven, it lived here on earth. He did not require the clergy of his monasteries to take vows or forgo marriage.  How could they possibly encourage others, if they, themselves, could not understand?  Instead, he had them focus on the work before them–transcribing scripture, studying the sciences, and training others for spiritual labors, both at home and abroad.

Saint Patrick founded 365 churches and 365 schools. He lived through good times and bad; he lived in slavery and freedom.  He encouraged others to do the same.  He was a man dedicated to prayer–and those in his care.

So it is the Irish celebrate their saint with revelry and prayer.  And you know what they say, on St. Paddy’s Day, everyone is Irish.

Let us celebrate in full–with prayers and rejoicing.

Like you, I can’t get the people of Japan off my mind.  As with any sorrow, it probably seems as if the world should stop for a moment.  But life goes on.  So yes, break out the green, dance an Irish  jig, feast on Irish fare–laugh along with those you love.  But don’t forget those who have little more than tears.  Keep them wrapped in your prayers, give if you can.  For it’s not that pot of gold that makes us the luckiest–it’s standing side-by-side, and sharing our burdens.

{there were flags}

{sidewalk chalk art}

{cool refreshment beneath blue, blue skies}

{even a patriotic pups or two}

{did I mention there were flags?}

And with that, I’m off to frolic a tad longer!

{photo: Lee, Russell, 1903-1986, photographer}

Here we are, heading into a long 4th of July weekend yet again… 

Things have certainly changed since America’s first birthday, July 4th, 1776.  We have over 300 million more people calling it home, for starters. We’re a little more hurried; a little more “space age.”  We’ve changed for the good, maybe a bit for the worse.

As we head into the weekend, however, let’s focus on things that remain the same. Let’s focus on the colors of the flag and all they represent–red {valor and hardiness}, white {purity and innocence}, and blue {vigilance, perseverance, and justice}.  Let’s focus on freedom–and remember those who continue to risk their lives that we might keep it. Let’s focus on things that make this country great–things like “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” 

Then, let’s get out there and celebrate like we mean it–with friends and family, picnics and BBQs, apple pies and Rootbeer floats,  parades and fireworks… 

Happy 4th of July, dear readers!

After all, a 4th of July celebration is bound to be more fun with these festive fellows, wouldn’t you agree?!

{Independence Day Pinwheels by Rule42}

You might say the birthday of the ”Stars and Stripes” was first celebrated June 14, 1885, in a one room schoolhouse made of stone.  The teacher, a nineteen-year-old Bernard J. Cigrand, stuck a small flag in an inkwell and asked his students to write an essay on the significance of the American flag.

Cingrand, you see, was the youngest of six children whose parents immigrated to the United States from Luxembourg. Being taught to love this great nation from an early age, it’s only natural he would grow to have a deep respect for that which sybolized all she stood for: the American flag. 

So, as he worked to sell scrap iron and rags to buy books …

… to sell books and Bibles for the US Book and Bible Club … 

… as a conductor on a steam barge …

… as a school teacher at Stony Hill …

… as a contributing editor of the Encyclopedia Americana …     

… as a Dentist, and finally, Dean of Columbian Dental College …

He worked to promote patriotism and respect for the flag.  He wrote books and pamplets; he submitted proposals and delivered speeches. Though he did witness President Woodrow Wilson issue a proclamation claiming Flag day as a national event, he did not live to see the final outcome:  President Harry S. Truman signing legislation officially designating June 14th as Flag Day.  

Flag Day still stands, though the meaning has faltered.  Sure, we fly that flag.  We fly it in daylight and the darkest of nights–be it calm, or blustery.  We fly it laden with grime, and dotted with holes.  When it becomes tattered beyond recognition, we toss it atop the garbage heap.

Seems we’ve lost the very thing Cingrand fought for: respect.

This year, as we unfurl the red, white, and blue let us stop and think of all it represents; let us treat it with the dignity it deserves … and teach others to do the same.