Late Night Blessings

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m fresh off a 3 p. – 3 a. shift in the ER. I’m a social worker there, which is, at times boring - as in, “Bring me a Coke or a blanket or help me make a phone call…” It is also, at times, quite harrowing – as in, “Call this man’s family and tell them he has died in an ‘MVC’ (motor vehicle crash) - and, get them here right away to identify his body and claim his valuables…”

Really, really bizarre work - good work - but really, really bizarre work. .Tonight’s shift started out slow, which meant I had time to complete my “holiday bereavement cards.” These are personal notes written to anyone I’ve tried to help through an awful experience during the past year.

This year’s list included families of a “GSW” (gun shot wound - in this case fatal) to the head, a premature and quickly fatal stroke, a suicide., a foreseen but still very sad heart attack, and a 10-week old baby’s death…Serious stuff here - these people are hurting intensely this holiday season, and here I am, fretting about Mr. Clark finding work …

Around 1:30 in the morning, as it often does, ER hell broke loose…

A woman transferred from another hospital, bleeding badly, is in need of surgery tonight. Her distraught, but clearly strong and connected family signs the consent forms and tries to deal with the news from the surgeon that, “she probably won’t make it through this…”

The wife and daughter of a man with untreated high blood pressure hear that he has suffered “a massive stroke - from which he won’t recover.” Such strong women they were, praying and crying and talking to him, touching his chest and telling him how much they love him and how much they needed him to get better, while at the same time saying good bye…

There was an intubated man, also transferred from another hospital, his injuries the result of an MVC. In this case, his girlfriend apparently dropped him off at the ER and left. As head injury patients often are, he was combative, and somehow ended up heavily sedated and on a breathing machine - no family, friends or girlfriend in sight, no numbers in the chart or anywhere on him to call…

Add to all that, the poor panic attack girl who was on her second ER visit – seventh panic attack – of the day and you really begin to count your blessings.

After all, it is the holiday season, and many of us have brightly lit Christmas trees or other holiday decorations shining in our homes. We have loved ones, and good health, and holiday plans that involve good food, much laughter and excellent fellowship. It’s hard to imagine, as we gather near our Christmas trees or Menorahs or whatever, that some - in fact, so many – folks are struggling so hard, just trying to make it through the aftermath of a terrible tragedy.

On the way out of the hospital I stopped to look at the huge Christmas tree they put up in the main lobby each year. It’s three stories high and replete with lights and great big shiny ornaments. Even though the hospital was quiet and dark - almost eerily so at 4 a.m. - I swear, I heard a few strains of Silent Night, swirling up around that beautiful tree, lifting softly and sweetly into the night…I thought about all the sad situations and difficult times happening to people in rooms all over this big place…and, I said a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

My life certainly has some very real, very big-seeming problems looming relentlessly over our heads, even as we try to solve them. The brightness of my New Year - given the state of the economy and Mr. Clark’s continued unemployment - is in no way guaranteed…But, I do have a healthy family who will gather around my Christmas tree again this year, and once again, we are all, in various degrees, okay.

Life, and God, are good, and I see that, and I hear that, in the faces and words of so many of the people who pass through the ER, having such very terrible days. They talk of love, and faith, and happy memories…There are no words of hate at an ER bedside. There are only tears, and hope, and sometimes - to those serving at that bedside – a reminder of how thankful we all must be.

You are right, Mr. Grinch!

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store….Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!" - the Grinch

Mr. Clark was in the Athens unemployment office the other day. The place was full. One of the clerks said he’s worked in that office for 14 years and he’s “never seen it this bad.” Usually, he said, the Athens office sees around 1,200 people a month. “Last month,” he said, “we saw over 6,000…I don’t know what we’re going to do about finding all these people jobs.”

According to the headlines, 1 in 10 Americans is “in mortage trouble,” whatever that means.

Last week our very own Barrow Journal reported that foreclosures in Barrow County have jumped 80-percent in the last five months. There were 157 foreclosures in our county in October, and a total of nearly 1,400 so far this year.
The headlines also say the 533,000 layoffs that occurred nationwide in November were the “most in 34 years.” Not to worry, retail sales are down, too. A post Thanksgiving headline cries “Nov. retail sales worst in 30 years.”

All this said, after only brief deliberation, we agreed not to exchange Christmas gifts this year – not in the immediate Clark house or between the extended Clark family houses. The extended Sinn family is on the bus, as well. We did agree that we would all probably break the rule a bit, by sending small collective boxes of things we made ourselves, for cheap. For example, I might make some note cards with photos I’ve taken on them. Mr. Clark could throw in some of his jalapeno hot sauce. My daughter might add some silly self-imprinted things like crazy koozies or festive cocktail napkins. My daughter-in-law’s recent association with Arbonne products could certainly round out the low cost, but sincerely heartfelt holiday boxes we send to the out-of-state relatives.

Within the immediate Clark family, we’ve agreed to break the rules by exchanging coupons for various things we’ve “been gonna’” do for each other for months. Without giving away the surprises, I can say that we all have some nice ideas for things we can do for each other that involve time, rather than money. It may be shaping up to be a pretty good Christmas, after all…

When we first thought of no gifts this year, it seemed like a pretty rough prospect. I mean, Christmas – with nothing to open?

Surprisingly, it seemed fine to us all. These tough economic times are impacting even the still gainfully employed pretty hard, and, it turns out, most of us are just not that excited by the prospect of another holiday season spent roaming the aisles of Target and Macy’s hoping to find something that communicates love (or at least warmest regards…) to each and every person on our shopping list.
There wasn’t even any discussion. “That sounds good to me…Yep, count us in…We have no problem with that…” were just a few of the reactions voiced in family phone calls and e-mails. And, surprisingly, again, the prospect of a relatively non-materialist Christmas has been very freeing emotionally. I am actually feeling much more festive this year than I have in years, and a lot of it has to do with simply knowing that this holiday season is not going to be about gifts – at all.

Mr. Clark put up the Christmas tree today, and we hung our wreaths and outdoor decorations. The nutcracker collection is back up on the mantle. The angel collection looks great, as always, on the piano. A few cinnamon and pine scented candles set the tone in the air. And, Christmas music is pretty much all we’ll be listening to, from here on through the New Year. Who says you need to buy a bunch of stuff to enjoy the holidays?

One of the things I like most about life is the surprises along the way. One of the things I believe is that difficult times and problems and challenges come to us for a reason - that reason being there is a lesson to be learned. I can’t say that Mr. Clark’s six months (and still counting…) of unemployment have been anything but harrowing. I can say there have already been some valuable lessons learned. I think this Christmas of no gifts is another lesson in the making…

After all, Christmas is not about stuff. It’s about love, and miracles, and drawing closer together on a cold, clear night. Isn’t that what happened in that stable, so long ago…and, isn’t that what we seek as we deck our halls, and string our lights, and wander the aisles of our favorite department store?

The Grinch was right. Christmas doesn’t have to come from a store. And, yes, it does mean a good bit more.

Mr. Cupcakes picks a Christmas tree

Turn Right to see the Badger

In an effort to cut expenses at the Clark house, Mr. Clark has begun driving like a UPS driver. No, he doesn’t wear a brown uniform, nor has he (at least not yet) painted our vehicles brown - but he is making only right turns, whenever possible.

You see, he read an article about how UPS plots delivery routes to use the maximum possible number of right turns. The idea behind this is left turns involve more idling at stop lights and corners – and, more idling equals more fuel use and greater carbon dioxide emissions.

UPS began the right turn thing a couple of years ago, and it must really work, as currently 90% of the turns UPS drivers make to deliver the nearly 15-million packages they deliver each day are right turns. In 2007, UPS trucks drove 2.6-billion miles, and all those right turns saved 3-million gallons of fuel, as well as reducing carbon dioxide emissions by 32,000 metric tons.

Back to Mr. Clark. While I appreciate his efforts to cut our fuel costs (and reduce the size of our carbon footprint), driving through town with him is a maddening experience. We all know how terrible Winder traffic is – well, add the challenge of making only right turns, and you can imagine how long it seems to take to get anywhere in Winder with Mr. Clark at the wheel.

It reminds me of taking rides with my grandpa when I was little. My grandparents lived in a town much like Winder, only smaller, and with less traffic. My grandpa was a big driver – loved driving, always had nice cars, lived for a good road trip. So, sometimes - I suppose it was when the urge to drive hit him, but there was no trip planned - he would take me for a ride, all around his little town.

We’d go to the post office to get his mail, then visit a few of his merchant friends downtown. Then we’d cruise around to see “the new construction” - which in this town meant a new roof, a freshly repaired driveway, a new swing set in a back yard, or a repainted restaurant sign. Sometimes we’d go out to the airport to “see if there’s any new planes” - there never were. Other times we’d drive out in the country to “see the wheat.” (My family had a wheat farm outside town, and let me tell you, wheat grows pretty slow if you’re checking on it frequently.)

The ride would wind down with an ice cream cone at the Dairy Queen. The last stop was always to “go see the badger.” (The high school mascot was a badger, and they kept a poor, sad, sample specimen in a cage out by the airport.) Sometimes we’d take the badger a snack. Other times we’d just check on him.
I remember these rides as being pleasant in their own way, but also pretty boring and slow. It seemed like my grandpa could cruise around for hours, not really seeing anything – and he didn’t even know about the right turn thing.

One day, sitting next to Mr. Clark as he wound his way through Winder, making only right turns - no hope of reaching our destination in sight – it hit me. This was just like going to see the badger with my grandpa - only I’m much older now, have a lot less patience, and there’s no ice cream cone involved. No wonder I’ve started sending Mr. Clark out on errands alone most of the time!

“Too bad there’s no badger in Winder,” I told him. “If there was, at least we could go see him, as we wind our way through town, one right turn at a time.”
“How do you know there’s no badger in Winder?” Mr. Clark responded. “Maybe we’ll stumble upon him on one of our “trips” (to and from the grocery, the post office, the bank, etc.)

I don’t know if Winder has a badger. Maybe, instead, there’s a wog – somewhere, in a little cage, hoping for some visitors or a snack. If he’s out there, we’ll find him. Then “seeing the wog” he can become part of Mr. Clark’s right turn routes through Winder.

In the meantime, think of all the gas we’re saving…

Lovin' the South

Nineteen years ago today, we packed our two, small, crying children and all of our possessions a moving van and set out across the country to our “new life, in the South.”

I grew up in Colorado. My husband grew up in California. We spent our early years together near my family, in Boulder. Our kids were born there. I always assumed we’d die there. Then, in the late ‘80s, the Western economy took a nasty turn and, in hopes of brighter prospects, Mr. Clark took a job in Atlanta.

We had no idea what we were in for. I had seen “Gone With the Wind” a bunch of times, and been on one Anti-Bellum Trail bus tour with my family as a child. I knew most beauty pageant queens came from the South. I knew Southern people talked slower and were supposed to be more hospitable than the rest of us.

I also knew I would be homesick, and that my kids would be mad about being uprooted. What we were gaining wasn’t as obvious as what we were giving up. We had our work cut out for us…and, that didn’t even include the house.

Instead of settling in an Alpharetta Swim Tennis – the way “Cookie,” the realtor, wanted, we bought a “historic restoration property” in Winder. There had been a fire. It was condemned. The yard was overgrown. It was rumored to be haunted. But, we felt sure all this 1903-built Greek Revival beauty needed was some TLC and she’d be restored to her Tara-like glory once again…

It took us a year to get the house up to livable snuff. It took us another year or so to actually make her feel like home. The kids settled into their “awful new school.” They made friends and got involved in activities. Mr. Clark’s job went well. The people we met were generous and hospitable. They did speak more slowly, but there was a charm to the lilting pace and drawl of it all. The South had begun to weave us into her web…

Five years into “the Southern experiment,” as we once called it, my kids had definitely taken root. My daughter had an obvious Southern accent, and my son (initially my hold-out child) had started proclaiming he “loved this place” and, “was never going to leave.” My secret (and not so secret) dreams of returning West seemed to be at serious risk…

Ten years into “the Southern experiment,” as it was no longer called, we were entrenched. The South had us in her web and she was not letting go. Both kids did well in high school and were headed off to East Coast colleges. Mr. Clark’s Atlanta-based work was going gang-busters. My daughter was deeply in love with her high school boyfriend. My son was proclaiming that he was going to “move to Athens” after “getting through college” and “traveling some.”

Sixteen years into what is now known as “our life in the South,” my daughter married her high school boyfriend. They settled in Atlanta. A couple of years later, her brother married his UGA sweetheart. They (true to my son’s high school proclamation) live in Athens. And, here I sit - still the mistress of a much quieter “Tara” - squarely half-way between my two grown children’s lives. Any doubt about what happened to those hopes of moving back West?

Like it or not, I am firmly woven into the web of what has turned out to be a wonderful, wild ride of a near-twenty year Southern adventure.

I will admit, I do still dream of moving back West - for try as I have, I have never really fit in here the way my kids do. If I had a $1 for every “Bless her heart,” or “Well, never mind, she’s not from around here,” that’s been spoken on my behalf, I’d be a good bit wealthier than I am…

But, if “home is where the heart is,” I guess my Western heart has found its’ home - right here in the South. Maybe by the time I have grand children, I will have at least learned how to make a decent pitcher of sweet tea!

Miracle Cat

I believe in miracles, both big and small. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed thus far with a life that has not needed or requested any major miracles. My miracles have all been of the minor variety – but, oh, so many there have been!

Car trouble that didn’t happen until it was safe…Animals healed or, when lost, found…Loving homes found for all the cats, kittens, puppies and dogs that have ended up on my doorstep…Work showing up when it was most needed…Trouble or trauma that seemed inevitable, faded away…God is good, and He/She has been very, very good to me and mine over the years.

The most recent miracle that happened involved my elderly neighbors, the Petermans, a sweet kitty named Sarah Elisabeth, a well-placed phone call, and, yes, yet another cat rescue by me.

A month or so ago, my neighbor, John Peterman, left a message on our machine. He said a little yellow and white cat had “taken up” at their house. He wondered if it was mine. I didn’t return the call, because it wasn’t mine, and I’m a believer that every home should have a cat. I figured that cat had just found hers and I wanted the Petermans to give her a shot.

Then, one afternoon last week there was a flurry of dog activity on our back porch. I ran to see what it was, and caught a glimpse of a white tail, then watched as a yellow and white cat ran from my dogs, to scaled tall, thin tree not far from the house.

I ran after the dogs and called to Mr. Clark to put the dogs in. He did, and I went to check on the cat, who had climbed very high in the tree.

She was a little half-grown female, yellow and white, very scared and very friendly. She had no clue how to get down from the small limb where she was perilously perched. I tried the time-tested trick of opening a can of cat food and banging a little on the plate, right below the tree. She was clearly motivated, but couldn’t figure out how to get down. She managed to swing - and nearly fall - to the limb below, which was still quite high. She cried and cried, but wouldn’t - or couldn’t - come down.

Mr. Clark got the tall ladder and propped it against the tree trunk, Then, I held the ladder while he grabbed the cat. Boy, was she glad to be safe again!

I took her in, to Mr. Clark’s office (which serves as the rescued animal holding room), fed her and assessed the situation. She was clearly someone’s cat. She was well-fed, affectionate, healthy and she had a great big purr. Since we couldn’t keep her, I began forming the adoption plan - then it hit me. This was the Petermans’ cat!

I called - no one was home. I left a message. Later, I took the cat over to their house. All the lights were out - only the porch light on - no one was home. The cat spent the night in Mr. Clark’s office. The next day I left another message on Lou and John’s machine, and I walked her over to their house again, but it still appeared that no one was home.

We had appointments in Athens all day, so the cat spent the day in Mr. Clark’s office. If the Petermans didn’t return or respond soon, I’d have to come up with an adoption plan…Then, John called my cell. He said he’d not been able to understand much in my messages, but he had heard that we had a cat, and he wanted to “take a look at it.” I told him I’d bring her right over.

The look on Lou and John’s faces, when they opened the door and saw their beloved Sarah Elisabeth again would make the coldest heart believe in miracles.

It turned out Sarah Elisabeth had been gone for two nights, and they’d been looking for her - but with limited mobility - their search had been unsuccessful. Lou had been praying, and John had been hoping – and calling out the back door. But, as the third night approached, they had almost given up hope.

“We’ve never had a cat before,” Lou said. “I’ve never even liked cats, but Sarah Elisabeth is different. When she came to us she was so small and skinny and pitiful, and now look at her! I had no idea I would come to love her so much, in such a short time.”

And, Sarah Elisabeth was clearly right back where she belonged. She rolled around on the carpet, ate a little, roamed the house, then settled happily in Lou’s lap.

We had a nice visit, I gave them some cat care tips, and then I went home – so glad that Sarah Elisabeth and the Petermans were reunited once more,

These are the little miracles that mean so much - a tiny cat finds a loving home… an elderly couple discovers what an excellent companion a cat can be…I find the cat when she wanders…and, thanks to John’s message, return Sarah Elisabeth to the people who now so dearly love her …God is good!

Faith in the ER

I’ve been in an angry, sad, worried funk for months now.

My husband’s out of work - after 25 years of good, gainful employment in the homebuilding industry. For months, he’s been throwing his resume out there and “working his network,” so far to no avail. Companies he’s worked with for years are scaling way back, or closing their doors. His prospects are grim…our money is running out.

But, not too worry! The economy’s in the crapper, as well, and predictions of recovery have us months out - as if anyone knows what’s going to happen anyway…. After years of being firmly entrenched in the middle-class, our little world is melting away around us and I’m more than a little scared about how it will all turn out…This kind of situation – and thinking - can really suck you in, and bring you down….

And, that is why I am grateful one of my jobs is being an emergency room social worker a couple of days each week. If you ever want to a reality check, just spend some time in a busy ER. That’ll put your personal problems into perspective.

One of my duties is to gather the family when a patient is dieing, and to be with them as the process unfolds. Serious, daunting, humbling work – this. No matter how many times I am with a family through this, it amazes me – how sad, and real, and life altering each death is - for every family.

The other day a very elderly man came in, having collapsed, after a few days of a “real bad headache.” His family found him down, when they returned from taking his wife to a doctor’s appointment. “He was alright when we left,” his son said. “He had a headache, but he’d had that for a few days.”

“When I found him, I shook him and asked if he was alright,” the son said. “’I recken,’ daddy said…Turns out those were his last words.”

The man was very old, and pretty sick, and had a lot of medical problems. Yet, his death – as all deaths, I believe do – came as a terrible shock to his family.

They gathered, and cried, and prayed, and laughed, and remembered him at his best, strongest, and most stubborn. They stood gathered around his bedside, talking to him, stroking his forehead, patting his chest, watching him slowly fade away…

The hardest part of being with a family through this - for me - is watching the wife-now-widow sit next to the bedside, holding her husband’s hand, wondering, how - after all these years – to let that hand go and tell him, “Good bye?”

These elderly widows are proud and strong. They hold their heads high, and dab the tears from the corners of their eyes with dignity and poise. They sit - not seeming to hear what their children are saying around them - studying the face of the man they’ve shared some 50-60-70 years with. They know he’s gone, but, they don’t believe it. They realize life from here on out will be very different…

Many of these families don’t look like they have much. Their clothes and their faces tell stories of hard work, and long hours, for a lot of years. Many of them don’t believe much in doctors, or medicines, or anything except a good hard day’s work with some time spent with the family at the end of it. Their families seem close. Their faith seems strong. Somehow, you get the sense that faith and the closeness of their family will see them through.

I admire their faith and closeness, even as I cling to my own and try, once again, to turn my worried, rattled thoughts to, as the Phillippians (4:8) said, “…whatsoever things are true…honest…just…pure…lovely…(and) of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” It beats listening to those bleak economic forecasts, anyway.

Mr. Obama, Get a Greyhound

With the election finally over, we, as a nation can roll up our sleeves and turn to the challenges that lie ahead. One of the more heartwarming, admittedly minor, challenges is to get our collective two-cents worth in about what kind of dog Sasha and Malia Obama should adopt to serve as our nation’s First Dog.

There is rumbling about how fitting it would be the first family to rescue a shelter mutt, and I believe the Obamas have said a rescue dog is certainly on the short list of potential candidates.

Well, Mr. President (elect), here’s my advice. The idea of rescuing a shelter dog is nice, but be careful! You won’t know what you’ve ended up with for months. Over the years I have rescued more than my share of shelter mutts, and I can tell you, most of these dogs carry deep scars that only begin to manifest themselves as “behavioral challenges” months after the dog has settled in to your heart and your home.

There was Purdy, the expensive-electronic-device-eating dog…and, Buster, the I-bite-the-ankles-of-people-we-pass-on-a-walk dog…Greta, the I-eat-rocks-and-break-my-teeth dog…and Rosie, the I-rip-up-pillows-dog. One of them, whose name I don’t even remember, ate Mr. Clark’s brand new, eyeglasses, the day after he bought them…So, many worthy dogs, so much destroyed property!

In so many cases, the Heinz 57-kind of a shelter dog turns out to be a loveable, but unpredictable blend of too many breeds, and bad past experiences – not really First Dog material. After all, it is the White House we’re talking about. Wouldn’t it be a shame for some national treasure to end up chewed, or shreaded, or buried in the Rose Garden, especially after the mutt in question has moved in and stolen your daughters’ hearts.

Why not adopt a dog from a pure-bred rescue organization? You’re still saving a life – and, you know what you’re getting into. That’s the thing about pure-breds. Their behavior and temperaments are predictable

My personal advice, Mr. President, would be to consider adopting one, or maybe even two, retired Greyhound racers. They are easy going, calm, well-behaved, fairly low maintenance and tolerant. They don’t bark much and barely shed. They come pre-trained, and have impeccable manners. They are also elegant, and loving, and they look great in winter clothing – which I’m sure the girls’ would enjoy picking out.

I know all of this because one of my “grand-dogs” ( I don’t have grandchildren) is a retired racer, and she is a wonderful dog in every way. Lily started out as “Octavo.” She was born in March of 2005, and ran 49 races in eight months during her second year. Her race record was all over the map, which is probably why she was retired at just over two. She had 15 top-three placed wins and 24 last or near last place finishes.

When my son and his wife got Lily she was a tall, rail-thin, shy, near ghost of a dog. She was very well-mannered and highly trained, but there didn’t seem to be much spirit left in her. She never, ever wanted to run.

As she settled in, and learned how to do things like get in a car, and go up steps, and jump on the bed, Lily’s personality began to emerge. She started playing with her toys and sniffing noses with her cats. A little later, she started running again. This time, it was in Gramma Lorin’s big yard, round and round, in joyful circles, seeming to discover - maybe for the first time - that being born to run can be a good thing.

Now, a little over a year into her life away from the track, Lily is a fun-loving, rambunctious, but still very well-mannered goof of a dog with a lot of personality. She’s spirited and playful, but impeccably polite. She walks perfectly on her leash and never begs at the table. She looks elegant, prancing down the street in one of her winter coats, and watching her run is just a joy.
Yes, Mr. President, a retired racer, or two, would make perfect White House pets. Your girls would have fun dressing them up. Your guests would be charmed by their elegance and excellent manners. And, watching the First Dog gallop around and around the White Hounds grounds, well that would just be fun for us all.

Give it some thought anyway, and if you’re interested, go to: www.greyhoundadoption.org or the National Greyhound Adoption Program’s website.

Halloween Candy

My husband handed out the Halloween candy tonight, for the first time in years. It’s not that he’s some kind of Halloween Grinch. It’s just that up until this year, he’s been away on business for Halloween.

He missed all the years when I took our little witch and mummy, or bride and devil, or cheerleader and football player Trick-or-Treating. He missed the later years, when our kids and their friends would gather at our big, old, scary (yes, it is actually haunted…) house to bob for apples, watch scary movies and play Hide-and-Seek with all the lights off.

Most recently he missed sitting with me on the front porch to hand out candy to all the little witches and mummies and brides and devils that still come by. For a few of those years Holly - our old, but still very spry Cocker Spaniel - would sit next to me, wearing a Halloween headband or collar, enthusiastically wagging her little bump of a tail as the kids petted her head and told her how cute she looked.

When Holly died, Gracie - our old but still very friendly, black Mutt mix - would sit with me, also wearing some goofy headband or collar. She, too, would thump her long fluffy tail enthusiastically while all the little ghosts and goblins made their choices from the candy bowl, then thanked us, and yelled “Happy Halloween!” as they ran down the walk into the scary, wonderful, treat-filled night.

The past few years I’ve handed out the candy alone. The new dogs are too rambunctious to join me on the porch - and besides, these evenings belong to Holly and Gracie, who sometimes, I sense, make their way back, however briefly, to sit next to me on the porch and greet the kids as they present their pillow cases and pumpkin buckets, yelling “Trick-or-Treat!” - those wild, expectant, excited smiles on their bright little made-up faces.

Yes, this year, Mr. Clark was with me to hand out the Halloween candy. You see, he was laid off in early July, after years of successful work in homebuilding software. Although it was a step down from his past “jet set” or at least airport-filled life, he seemed to enjoy asking the kids what they were, and helping them pick which “just one” candy they could take from the bowl. He complimented almost each and every one of them on how wonderful their costumes were. He (and the thumping-tailed ghosts of Holly and Gracie) had a pretty good time.
In years past, I’ve left the porch lights on as long as trick-or-treaters have continued to come to the door - giving out bags and bags of candy, long into the night. This year we had to turn the lights out around 8 because the two bags of candy Mr. Clark bought were gone. Initially, we weren’t going to buy any Halloween candy this year – unemployed times being what they are. But Mr. Clark lobbied heavily to “celebrate this holiday “just a little bit - with a couple of bags of candy.”

“You can’t give out no candy on Halloween,” he said. “What kind of a deal is that?” And, he’s right.

What have times come to when you can’t find it in your heart (and budget) to greet the little things that go bump on a Halloween night with a treat of some type? After all, in the words of good ole’ Abe Lincoln – who did actually make one appearance at our door last night – “…let us confidently hope that all will yet be well.”