Hit The Bricks

Howdy, Pilgrims!

I surely do hope that you are all having yourselves one heck of a rip-roaring, lip-smacking, gold-plated Thanksgiving blowout, with all the trimmings, and please don't spare the horses. Whether your holiday tastes run to the tried and true, with Tom Turkey at its center, or indulging in the more unconventional festivities at the local casino (and really, what would Thanksgiving be without our Native American brethren, after all?) this is an event that lends itself naturally to improvisation. There's just no wrong way to celebrate Thanksgiving, just like there's no wrong way to enjoy pumpkin pie with whipped cream, so whatever works for you, well, the sky's the limit. Above all, please take a moment to remember that the purpose of the day is not football, or shopping, or even culinary excess, but to give thanks for all of our blessings and advantages, which we take for granted all too often. Since this is a celebration of abundance, take in any "orphan pilgrims" that may not have anyone to share the holiday with, or even better, take them to the casino with you, and see if they can't turn their luck around at the slot machines. This could give a whole new meaning to the phrase "a wing and a prayer!" (And if you folks hit it big, all that I ask is that you remember the little people, thank you.) Whatever you do, I hope you enjoy it to the fullest, because although there is no wrong way to celebrate Thanksgiving, not celebrating it at all could get you in trouble with -

The Pilgrim Police

And I ought to know, because I just made them up. Meanwhile, here is something that I didn't make up, in fact as the saying goes, you couldn't make this stuff up. So let's all give thanks to Bill Fuller, for not only failing in his efforts to set a good example, but also in spectacular fashion, and instead serves as a horrible warning for us all.

==================================
Bricklayer's Accident Report ~

This is a bricklayer's accident report, which was printed in the newsletter of the Australian equivalent of the Workers' Compensation Board. This is a true story. Had this guy died, he'd have received a Darwin Award for sure....

Dear Sir:

I am writing in response to your request for additional information In Block 3 of the accident report form. I put "poor planning" as the cause of my accident. You asked for a fuller explanation and I trust the following details will be sufficient. I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of a new six story building. When I completed my work, I found that I had some bricksleft over which, when weighed later, were found to be slightly in excess of 500 lbs.

Rather than carry the bricks down by hand, I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley, which was attached to the side of the building on the sixth floor. Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went down and untied the rope, holding it tightly to ensure a slow descent of the bricks.

You will note in Block 11 of the accident report form that I weigh 175 lbs.

Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground so suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rapid rate up the side of the building.

In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel which was now proceeding downward at an equal, impressive speed. This explained the fractured skull, minor abrasions and the broken collar bone, as listed in section 3 of the accident report form.

Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley. Fortunately by this time I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of beginning to experience a great deal of pain.

At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Now devoid of the weight of the bricks, that barrel weighed approximately 50 lbs.

I refer you again to my weight.

As you can imagine, I began a rapid descent, down the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This counts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth and several lacerations of my legs and lower body.

Here my luck began to change slightly. The encounter with the barrel seemed to slow me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and fortunately only three vertebrae were cracked.

I am sorry to report, however, as I lay there on the pile of bricks, in pain unable to move, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope and I lay there watching the empty barrel begin its journey back down onto me. This explains the two broken legs.

I hope this answers your inquiry.
Bill Fuller

Pin The Tail On The Donkey

Hello World,

Of course, everyone knows how I do so hate to be an alarmist, but with Thanksgiving less than a week away (I kid you not) just relating the plain fact of the matter should sound the tocsin in the minds of all rational people everywhere. This is especially true of addle-pated individuals like me, who feel like we have only recently gotten back from summer vacation, and it should still be July or thereabouts. To get the unwelcome news, as I did earlier, that there are only 37 shopping days until Christmas was just about more than I could bear, no thanks very much not. Now, it's true that Thanksgiving is extremely early this year, and for which I blame the dratted switch-over to the Julian Calendar, in addition to the blasted Daylight Saving Time, and even the hypothetical Comrade Sergei and his confounded Russian date machine. A more impartial study of the facts might indicate the problem to be that the month started on a Thursday, rendering it inescapable that the fourth Thursday would have to be the 22nd, but you can believe me when I say that the day hasn't dawned that would find me being swayed by the facts, and I don't mind saying that I am unanimous in that.

As long as we're in a holiday frame of mind, last weekend we had friends visit from upstate, in what has turned out to be an annual ritual of enjoying the seasonal attractions at Fortunoff's in White Plains. Now, far be it from me to cast aspersions on our cross-county neighbors, but for a city that prides itself on being a retail Mecca, it must be said that their culinary options all seem to fall into the same four categories: closed, bad, crowded or expensive, and sometimes, all at once. There is no such thing as the venerable White Plains Diner just along the highway, that draws throngs of locals and tourists from all over, with its cozy charm, generous portions, friendly service and tasty fare. No, all of the good places that anyone remembers have long since shuttered their doors and been bulldozed for the latest CVS, bank, Gap or nail salon. Every time our friends come to visit, we try some place different to eat, and we seem to lurch from one disaster to another, with no end in sight. This time around, we decided to try our luck at the Food Court in the Galleria, where we also thought their holiday decorations would be a welcome treat. We were out of luck on that score, since the Spirit of Christmas Present had yet to transform the mall into a twinkling snow-covered extravaganza, but we did find that for brunch customers, the Food Court had a lot to offer. Even on the Mexican and Asian menu's, it was possible to find interesting breakfast ideas, like egg-and-cheese wraps or apple-cinnamon dumplings. Bill and I might have tried any number of the delectable offerings we found all around us, except for the fact that first we discovered one of the only Cinnabons we had seen in years of traveling, since they closed all of them in the Thruway rest stops, and so we took one look and were all over that place like a bad suit. Ah, Cinnabon! This would probably be a good place to share my epic "Ode to Cinnabon," except that, well, it's very personal. I'm sure you understand.

At the risk of being gauche, I will say that the ladies room at the Food Court stands alone in perennial memory as the only place I have ever been, where all of the automated facilities, from the toilet to the sink to the paper towel dispenser, all worked flawlessly. By that I mean that they not only did automatically what they were supposed to do, which is certainly rare enough, but also at the correct time that they were supposed to do it, which has never happened to me personally up to this point. In fact, it made me so giddy that I accidentally wandered a little too close to the automatic hand dryers, and turned them all on as I walked past. So I guess I would call that a "3-blow salute" and it was worth every bit of it.

Of course, White Plains was designed by space aliens from a distant galaxy with no cars, so at its core is an impenetrable maze of one-way streets, dead-ends, parking garages and highway ramps. For the purpose of keeping traffic moving smoothly (which it doesn't, by the way) the planners came up with the idea of pounding metal posts into the roads at strategic locations, so that drivers who might inadvertently find themselves in a lane that takes them where they don't want to go, like onto the highway, cannot move back into the correct lane without slamming into these handy posts instead. This has the perhaps unintended effect that unwary drivers go to a lot of places that they never meant to, besides having no idea of how to get back. This may help to explain the White Plains motto, which is "Visit White Plains and See The World," although for the unlucky motorist who has been forced onto the third highway that they didn't want, it probably loses a lot of its charm. In any case, getting from the Galleria to Fortunoff's, which should be a piece of cake, or at least an apple-cinnamon dumpling, and is less than a mile as the crow flies, only narrowly avoided disaster with Bill's expert navigational skills and presence of mind. And while my suggestion to try jumping the cars over the posts was universally rebuffed, in the spirit of the holidays, I refused to sulk.

Every year when we go to Fortunoff's, the Christmas display has changed enough to be different and interesting, and while we miss the elaborate train layouts from days of yore, there's still enough to tickle the fancy of the most discriminating shopper. One thing you can say about Fortunoff's is that you will never see the same old, tried and true, shop-worn and time-tested seasonal merchandise year after year, because each time we go, every single thing is completely different from the year before. You don't dare buy a set of something, like decorative lights, holiday plates or Nativity figures, because you'll never see them there again. Why, you'd end up with the most mis-matched mishmash of Bethlehem ever, with a porcelain Holy Family, silver sequined Wise Men, terra cotta shepherds, gingham angels, hammered-tin camels, chenille sheep, sandalwood cows and donkeys made out of clothespins and pipe cleaners. It would be the laughingstock of Nazareth, and don't even get me started on the little drummer boy. No, Fortunoff's eclectic wares are not for the faint of heart, although if that cuts down on the crowds any, we haven't noticed it. There was lots to look at and enjoy, and we even bought a few things, which should come as a surprise to no one. You just can't have too many clothespin and pipe cleaner donkeys, I always say.

It would not be an understatement to say that we caused our usual ruckus with all six of us having our picture taken with Santa, who was a good sport and infinitely patient with six crazy lunatics. You can believe me when I say that they don't pay those people nearly enough. By the time we were finished shopping, not to mention, creating the havoc that is our trademark wherever we go, and besides which, the security staff that was busily escorting us off the premises as fast as their legs would carry them, we were scouting around for some refreshments to bolster our flagging spirits. I suppose because Fortunoff's is in the same complex as The Cheesecake Factory and Morton's Steak House, they don't have their own dining facilities, so we asked them if there was a place nearby we could get some coffee or a soda. They suggested Whole Foods located handily downstairs, and when we pointed out this was a well-known chain of organic supermarkets, they assured us it also included a snack bar with chairs and tables. This sounded like it was right up our alley, so we set off in haste, and soon found ourselves standing around a small and cramped counter with a couple of bar stools, where they were serving flavored coffees and bad warm cocoa. Actually, there seemed to be a very nice and wide-ranging buffet of hot dishes and cold salad fixings, but for us, it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, so we stuck to drinks instead, although I can personally attest that the cocoa had nothing to recommend it. All the while, we were unmercifully castigating the knaves at Fortunoff's who steered us to this dive, instead of some place where we could all sit down and relax with a snack. As we were getting ready to leave, we decided to use the bathrooms, which were located on the opposite side of the store from where we entered, and so this was the first we discovered that entire wall of the store was taken up with rows of roomy cushioned booths, cozy corner tables, and more chairs than you could shake a stick at. We didn't have a stick to shake, but we didn't need one to know that it was just the irony gods toying with us again, blast their dastardly ironic little hearts.

After that, our friends took to the roads for the long drive north, and we returned home tired but happy, and don't think that I don't have the pictures to prove it. In ritualistic fashion, this annual excursion kicks off the holiday season for us in fine style, so now we're as ready as we'll ever be for the jolly old elf in the red suit, and I don't mean The Flash, although there's no denying that it would be handy to have someone around the house who could do things at supersonic speed, what with Christmas a mere five weeks away. (Gadzooks!) It certainly does seem that every year, the merry-go-round spins faster, and I must have lost a step or two over time, because it always seems harder and harder to keep up. So I'd better hop aboard the holiday caravan before it pulls out of the station, since I've got an awful lot to do before the reindeers fly, and I already know that I can't count on The Flash to help me out. After all, those clothespin and pipe cleaner donkeys don't just make themselves, you know.

All Wet

Hello World,

Happy November! I certainly hope that every little thing is fine with you, out there in your little corner of Paradise, where never is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day, amen. It will come as a surprise to no one in the local area that it was reported on the news that last month was the warmest October on record, since the time that they started keeping records of the weather, back when the dinosaurs were roaming the vast unformed land masses and prehistoric folks were living in caves. (And I don't mind saying, that for people who hadn't even invented the wheel yet, trying to carve the dew-point index or wind chill factor into cave walls was no mean feat.) Well, actually the records don't go back all that far, but they do go back a good long way in any case, so for this to be the warmest October, there was certainly a lot of competition to overcome. Of course, it would be all too easy to blame our old pal Comrade Mischka and the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, but after hundreds of years of keeping meteorological records, well, I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

I don't know if I can blame this on the weather or not, but it seems that lots of little odd quirks have been cropping up lately, or perhaps it's just that I've been noticing them more. For instance, I admit that I did not expect to see this arresting headline in the local newspaper last week, in screaming 2-inch type that blared: "NO EVIDENCE OF PARKWAY GUNFIRE." Frankly, I would expect to be living some place safe enough that a lack of highway violence would not be a front page story, but there you have it. I suppose it just goes to prove that one man's news is another man's snooze, and I guess the moral of this story is that a day without shots ringing out on the parkway is not a thing to be taken for granted anymore. Then I went to drop something off at work on Sunday after church, and found the street behind the parking lot was closed for some sort of block party, replete with food, games and neighborhood folks having a good time. At least, it appeared from a distance to be a block party, except that I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable sounds of a marching band at full throttle, which as block parties go, would be an innovation that I'm not familiar with. Rather than your standard marches or school songs, this band elected to play the high volume version of El Condor Pasa, which I suppose had the advantage of novelty, if nothing else. Later at home, I happened to be doing some online shopping with our friends at amazon.com, and for anything you look up on their web site, they helpfully provide options to purchase it from them new, or used from one of their affiliates. Since I was in the market for shampoo at the time, I will admit that the idea of used shampoo did not appeal to me in the least. No thanks very much not!

In other local news, it certainly didn't take long for the New York Yankees former manager, Joe Torre, to find another job, in fact, the body wasn't hardly even cold, as we used to say back in the day, although that is no doubt an expression that is lost on young people nowadays. He signed on as skipper to right the ship of the foundering Los Angeles Dodgers, and shanghaied Don Mattingly along with him, not only leaving the rudderless Yankees high and dry, but also up a creek without a paddle, and other nautical metaphors of that salt, I mean, sort. For their part, the Yankees wasted no time in hiring Joe Girardi to fill the void, and how these things will turn out, one can only hope for the best. At least we learned a lesson from the pennant race collapse of the New York Mets, and even though it's early in the season for the New York Rangers, we don't take any chances by watching the games live, but rather, have our helpful TiVo record them for us. Then we only watch the games that the Rangers end up winning, so as far as we're concerned, the Broadway Blueshirts are undefeated so far this year, and we couldn't be happier with this new and improved arrangement. The fact that the Rangers' record is actually under .500 for the season, and they're languishing around the bottom of the standings, in no way diminishes our enjoyment of the hypothetical undefeated Rangers that we have come to know and love. People may call us front runners (don't you dare!) although in our defense, it's hard to be front runners for a last place team. That would be sort of like locking the barn door after the ship has sunk, which may be a sports metaphor whose time has not yet come, and I ought to know.

Meanwhile at work, the powers-that-be decided in their infinite wisdom to follow up the carpeting of the hallways in our building, with carpeting of the individual offices besides, which is only about as disruptive as having an enemy occupation force in your town with foreign soldiers billeted in your house. We have ten small offices in Purchasing, and spent long weeks moving everything from one room to another, one step ahead of the carpeters, and then moving it all back again afterward. This by itself would be bad enough, but trying to also do any work while all this was going on, was just more than we could handle. On any given day, no one knew where anything was, and making arrangements to disconnect, relocate and reconnect all of the computers, printers, fax machines and telephones brought our productivity to new lows, even for the hospital's lackadaisical standards. It was during this period that I found myself driving to work in the cold, and reaching for my fuzzy blue gloves in the car, could only find one of them, which was about half as much coziness as I would have preferred. I looked for my errant glove all over our department, and hoped that it hadn't gotten thrown out with the old carpet. I had no luck with it at work, and was surprised that it also didn't turn up in the car, even though I looked all over the floor and under the seats, front and back. Then when I pulled out of my parking space, I looked back and said, "What's that blue thing on the ground?" And sure enough, it was my missing glove, which must have been laying around in the parking lot since at least the week before, and I only happened to spot it there the day that I noticed it was missing. So that turned out to be a lucky coincidence, or as we used to say back in the old days, ya gotta glove it.

It might have been that same day at work that I leaned over to pick up something off the floor in the ladies room, and my pen fell in the toilet. Oh, thanks so very much not! I was reminded that in the ladies room at church, we have a handy sign posted that requests people to not put inappropriate articles, such as disposable diapers, in what the sign refers to as the "toliet." Whenever I see that, it makes me think of an old Steve Goodman song called "Lincoln Park Pirates" about the rogue tow trucks that operate in the Lincoln Park neighborhood outside of Chicago, in which he claims:

All our drivers are friendly and courteous
Their good manners, you always will get
For they all are recent graduates
Of the charm school in Joliet!

Of course, it stands to reason that peculiar things have been happening around here lately, since we just did our biannual Waltz of the Clocks with the end of Daylight Saving Time last weekend. Here we have another example of something that is only about as disruptive as having an enemy occupation force in your town with foreign soldiers billeted in your house, except that you also have no idea what time it is. And once again, thanks so very much not. This is even worse at work, where my computer is attached to the hospital network running Windows 2000NT, which still resets the system time based on the OLD schedule for DST in April and October, not the way it is now, and so for weeks on end, you're confronted with the wrong time in your face all day long, and all you can do is wait until enough time passes that the network finally catches up to the rest of the world, or at least that beleaguered part that observes DST. Those of us saddled with Windows 2000NT are beleaguered as well as belated, which is a bad combination that I can't even blame on Comrade Sergei and his confounded Russian date machine, try as I might.

Speaking of belated, here's a few extra notes about Halloween in these environs. Every year, whoever is in charge of these things (and I'd better not find out who this is) makes arrangements for a gigantic spider to take up residence on our front porch and assemble an enormous web right over our front door, from which to terrorize the local population by dropping on top of them unawares. We usually call it The Jumbotron, and it has no trouble living up to its name. This year we had the usual spider, about the size of your average full-grown crab, and just as ugly, but for some reason, built its web off to the side of the porch by the railing, so our unwary trick-or-treaters were in no danger of being sucked into its menacing clutches. That was one less thing to worry about for the holiday, and I was just as glad. And when I was coming home from work, and still in my Uncle Sam costume, as I was stopped at a traffic light, walking right in front of me was a pretty young woman dressed up as an elaborate witch in full regalia, out in broad daylight on the streets, which at least had the effect of making me feel like I was not the only nut in town. Earlier this week, I got an irate phone call from a co-worker who had seen a picture of my costume in someone else's office, and was very upset with me. "You didn't come to see me on Halloween," she fumed. "Everyone else saw your costume and I didn't. You're a bad girl and I'm mad at you." I apologized, as a matter of course, but then I wondered how I could have missed her, since I had made a special trip to the Nursing office, and thought I saw everyone who was there. "Oh that's right," she admitted, "I forgot I was off on Wednesday." Here's where I felt that I really deserved special recognition for not going right upstairs and slapping her silly, after she gave me such a hard time for ignoring her when she wasn't even here. Perhaps she expected me to go to work the next day also in my costume, just for the benefit of people who didn't see me on Halloween? I think not! I mean, I'm as big a fan of Halloween as the next fellow, and truth to tell, more than most, but one day is plenty even for me. And I mean that in real time, not Comrade Sergei and Windows 2000NT messed-up DST whackadoo screwy time, when nobody knows what day it is, and a fine kettle of fish that would be. In fact, while you're at it, why don't you just take that fine kettle of fish to the New York Rangers, and tell them that Joe Torre sent you.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Greetings, Mr. Ghoul and Lady Goblin, and All of the (ghost) Ships at Sea:

Happy Halloween! I hope that you had a "spook-tacular" holiday, full of fun frights and bumps in the night. The nice unseasonable weather that we had been having, continued to hold up on Wednesday, so it was a fine day for tricking these treats and treating those tricks all around. Halloween at our house always starts with candy and presents, and if there's a better way to start the day, I haven't heard of it. Since my original costume idea for this year did not quite make it to the finish line this time around, I was lucky to find a complete Uncle Sam costume, including striped pants, blue cutaway jacket, striped bow-tie and red-white-and-blue felt top hat, which I thought was a steal at under $20 for the whole shebang, and I was off and running. It had the added advantage of being cool and comfortable, and since it was 70 degrees on Halloween, that made a big difference. Personally, I didn't think that dear old Uncle Sam would be much of a costume idea, but I've long since given up on trying to figure out what people will like or not, and I found ol' Sam to be way more popular than I ever would have expected. That surprised me, because when I arrived at work, I walked in through the Clinic amid deafening silence on all sides, which made me feel like being at a round-up of illegal aliens and I was the border patrol. But I was a big hit in the computer department and Payroll, although someone in Finance asked me, "Who are you supposed to be?" It continues to be true that there is no costume so iconic that someone, somewhere will not get it wrong, no matter what.

Our retired co-worker made a special trip in just to see my costume and bring me a bag of goodies, which was nice and thoughtful. A few people came from different floors, and even a different building, to see my costume, rather than chance missing me on my rounds later in the day. One thing I wasn't expecting, although I suppose I should be used to it by now, heaven knows, is that everyone who saw me and loved the costume, they all said the same thing: "That's so cute!" or "You look adorable!" The thing about being short is that you can dress up as a fire-breathing movie monster that tramples whole cities underfoot, and at the end of the day, you've been heaped with so many "cutes" and "adorables" that you just can't stand it. For anyone like myself who never thought of Uncle Sam as a particularly cute character, I'd be happy to send you a picture of my costume and see if you agree with the prevailing consensus or not. Meanwhile, in the computer department, one wag described me as "Aunt Sam" instead, and I said that we were starting that rumor, although truth be told, I've never heard it said that Uncle Sam couldn't be married for all we know. Anyway, you heard it here first, folks.

Of course, everybody knows that when you trick-or-treat at the hospital, you get a lot of exercise, but no candy, right? This is honestly the first time I can remember that was not the case, and I ended up scoring treats everywhere I went. Usually when I go to a department and say "trick or treat," they come over and peek inside my bag and say, "Ooh, what have you got?" I try to explain that going around and giving out candy is actually the opposite of what's supposed to happen, and with the attrition along the way, I usually get back to my office with a net loss of candy from when I started. But not this time, and please don't ask me why, because there's simply no rhyme or reason to these things. I started out in Adult Day Care, where they were having a boisterous and swinging time of it, with music and decorations, costumes and games galore. I usually try to sneak out before they foist things on me like plain graham crackers or stale bread wrapped in plastic, but this year, they gave out great goodie bags full of fun-size candy bars, Kisses and lollipops. They actually called my office to ask me to come to the party in the nursing home at 2:30, so I had to make sure to get over there, and that was another rollicking affair with a DJ, party favors and fun costumes and props for all the residents. After that, I continued my rounds as I usually do, up one floor and down the next, through all the departments in the different buildings, spreading joy and sunshine in my wake. This was not as easy as it sounds, what with being 70 degrees outside and about 100 degrees inside, and climbing up and down stairs and lugging 20 pounds of candy around. I literally got candy in every single department that I went to, from one end of the campus to the other. I got an entire box of cookies in the Pharmacy, and a whole bag of Milky Way miniatures in Surgery. In the Operating Room, I was invited to the retirement luncheon for one of the doctors, that included fried chicken, tacos, salads, nachos, tuna casserole, mini pizzas, plus an entire wall of cakes and pies that looked like a bakery. In the Medical Staff Office, they gave me money, which made me feel like a third-world country getting a delivery from CARE. It all turned out to be an embarrassment of riches, and believe me, I'm not easily embarrassed.

Another change from recent years was that I found more people dressed up in their departments, like the homespun witch in Medical Records in her striped tights, or the poodle-skirted bobby-soxers in Medical Management, while in Occupational Health, they were sporting the most adorable little witch hats with attached pigtails in different colors. I only wish I had thought of taking their pictures along the way, which I certainly could have done, except that I forgot that I was also carrying around my camera with me, besides 20 pounds of candy in my treat bag. In fact, I didn't even remember that I had my camera with me when I got to the 7th floor, and three people at the nurses station all took my picture with their camera phones at the same time. It was a lot of fun, but very hot and tiring, so I was glad to get back to my office at last and sit down. But I wouldn't have missed it for anything, if only for the cashier who couldn't wait to tell me about her grandchildren going to a Halloween party dressed as what she described as "Fred and Erma Flintstone," which I think would certainly send shock waves through the cartoon community. Poor Wilma! So I guess we're starting that rumor also, and please remember that you heard it here first, folks.

Of course, there's no rest for the weary, so I had to hurry home from work and get ready for trick-or-treaters of our own. I quickly swept the stairs and the walk, and moved everything off the porch, and had a quick bite to eat while setting up the decorations, lights and candy by the door. The cats who were underfoot and making pests of themselves the whole time, scattered in all directions and vanished like wisps of ghostly apparitions when our first callers arrived after 6:00, and they never re-surfaced again until the night was long over. When it got to be 7:30 with only about 25 takers so far, I thought I was in for a long and boring night of it. But it picked up after that, and in fact, I still had people coming after 9PM, which usually doesn't happen these days. In the end, there were 94 altogether, and since I had made 100 goodie bags, it was just about perfect. Topping the costume list this year were witches at 8, then 7 Screams, 6 princesses, 6 skeletons, 4 Ninjas, 4 pirates, 4 Spiderman, 3 cats, 3 fairies, 2 chickens, 2 Flash, 2 ghosts and 2 Michael Meyers. The other 41 costumes were all singles, and included Gabriella from High School Musical, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, Marilyn Monroe, Minnie Mouse, Obi Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader, Blade, Little Red Riding Hood, the Grim Reaper, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, a Transformer, Violet from The Incredibles, Batgirl, Robin, the Devil, a vampire, a bunny rabbit, a magician, a clown, a rag doll, a butterfly, a sheriff, a rock star and two boys dressed as girls. My favorite part of the night was when I heard the unmistakable tread of feet on the porch, and jumped up to open the door, only to find the vestibule deserted except for a small and suspicious looking cardboard box, while from down the stairs, came the cry, "UPS!" I called, "Happy Halloween" after the delivery-man, although why they think it's a good idea to be delivering packages in the dark while everyone else is out trick-or-treating, is a continuing mystery to me.

So that was the Halloween report from the home front, not to mention the work front, and I don't have to go to the videotape to know that a fine time was had by all. There's really nothing like junk food and frivolity to make life worth living again, and Halloween gives us both in spades. So thanks to the Druids, or the Celts, or perhaps it was Hallmark that brought us this seasonal fright fest, with its storied traditions and fanciful costumes, to be enjoyed by children of all ages. That goes for all of you youngsters, as well as oldsters, and I ought to know, or my name isn't --

Uncle Sam