The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

So, October 31st is just around the corner, and most pumpkins who have any sense are quivering in their orange lined vestibules.  'Tis the time of year when the heathens of this world take the mighty pumpkin and sacrifice it to the Asphalt Gods.  November 1st is no friend to the short, squatted pumpkin.

What most good Irish children will tell you is that Halloween started in Ireland.  Actually, it was more a pagan ritual of sorts; brought to us courtesy of the Druids.  You know, the architects of Stonehenge.  And, if truth be told, Halloween did not really get going in this country (the USA) until 1845, when Irish immigrants flooded New York, after the death and scourge of the potato famine. 

What I recall most about Halloween were being able to eat Farmer John hot dogs, (unless Halloween fell on Friday, then it was fish sticks... you know, catholic).  My parents, both being Irish, did not really live it up on the pagan day.  We were allowed to create some sort of costume.  A pumpkin for each child was allowed; and thus began the competition of who could carve the most atrocious of faces on the poor orange skin of a gourd.  By the time October 31st rolled around, most pumpkins on our block were looking like Joan Rivers, before the face lifts.  Poor little bastards - all alone in a orange pumpkin world.

There were groups of kids who would team up, and start canvassing the neighborhoods.  We lived in the Ozzie & Harriet world, and thus every house had a light on, every parent had a basket full of candy, and razor blades were not yet being silvered into the little chocolate bar.  We would scour the streets, making it all the way to Reseda Blvd, which back in the late 60's and early 70's was quite a rite of passage.  Grade school kids were fierce if they could claim bragging rights the next day at school by proclaiming, "we made it to the blvd."! 

As I aged, Halloween took on a new meaning - parties involving more adult styled entertainment.  Keg parties,  dances, and even a bong hit or two.  Yes, I smoked pot... but I did not inhale.  The costumes were elevated from cheap plastic masks and manufactured get ups, to more risque apparel that was about as far away from being a saint as one could get. 

Watching "The Great Pumpkin" was a must. Charlie Brown and Linus really had it going on.   As we got older, it was the sequels of all things horror.  Halloween, the famous John Carpenter film was out in theaters, and then it could be caught on the television, day after day, leading up to the great holiday.

One year I dressed as a bum, and thought... wow this is the life.  Now, as I watch the vacant headed hippies doing the Occupy Wall Street party, I realize that some bum actually stole my costume.    Good grief Charlie Brown!

Bliss - Oh, I Miss Thee

BLISS.


So, what does this mean to you?  Is it cotton candy clouds, wafting in effortless waves across a blue bird sky? Or a warm wind across a Caribbean ocean, so teal blue that it hurts your mind just to imagine it?  Is the smell of a puppy's breath, or hearing a little kitten offer up a faint little mehw?  Bliss.  How do you envision the words?  The dictionary has it as complete happiness, and I would probably concur.

http://youtube/7I01BwClpSk   (I think I have attached that link correctly, but Bliss is NOT my abilities with computers) 

When I was a little girl, Bliss to me was climbing a tree, up atop the world, and being able to see out above the valley.  It was the feeling of absolute freedom as I walked, alone, along the beach at the end of the Pierpont Blvd, at my parents' beach house.  It was the magic passion (that really sounds crazy, doesn't it?) of a warm Santa Ana wind as it brushed across the night skies, allowing me to feel God's arms all around me.  When I was a little girl I would love to sleep in the backyard, under the skies, with my dog Coco at my side.  I would listen to the wind and watch the moonlight dance reflections, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers, on the silver screen.  I would lay there, in the night, and dream about running away to some far away place, and be able to run my own show.  I'd be my own boss.  I'd have control.

Bliss comes in the form of camping out in the desert southwest.  Moab, Utah brings me joy.  I can count a million little, tiny stars, strewn across a black velvet sky, and wonder about life.  I see the wisdom of my Daddy.  I can talk to my heart and soul, and somewhere in the vast eternity of darkness, I can hear his reply.  "You pull yourself up by the boot straps, Ann Corry". Bliss is traveling the highways of this country, looking out at the landscape as it jets by.  It's the people I meet along the way. 
 
Later,  Bliss was the moment my children were born.  December 1, July 4th, December 14th - BLISS, BLISS, BLISS!  Bliss was the day I met and married the most wonderful of companions - my husband John.  Bliss was the last time I held my Daddy's hand.  Bliss was knowing that I would see my son Michael and my Daddy again someday in heaven.  Bliss will be the day that my daughter Eryn has her baby - a son Christopher Corry.  Bliss was meeting my biological grandmother - a special gift.  Bliss is hearing, "I love you Mom", coming from my son Bryan, even after I have nagged him almost to death.  Bliss is the feeling of clean, crisp cotton sheets, the feel of cashmere on my shoulders, the cry of a newborn baby, the way a baseball glove feels on my hand, the sound of leaves as the winds zip through them.  Bliss is soft rain.  Bliss is a well written book, a symphony of words.  Bliss is music.  To tell you the truth, bliss is life.

who owns this blog?

So apparently I write about myself too much on my own blog.  This was discovered when I inquired of some friends as to whether or not they had read the blog and what they thought about it.  I don't mind criticism, comment or curt replies.  I asked and I indeed, received.  But I am left in a bit of a fog - Musings from Menopause... well who should the blog be about?  A man in  menopause?

I have been on the road for 3 weeks now.  I attempted to get a job in Southern California.  One was offered, however, the rate of pay would not allow me to cover the home in Colorado as well as a place in Ventura, CA.  I spent 2 weeks; divided between the coast and the Valley.  The weather was accommodating, and I was reminded of the utter joy of driving on the 405 during torrential rain, and even an extra special treat of the 405 north, right where the 5 and 405 merge, during rush hour traffic.  It was sublime, I tell you!  Nothing says, "I love LA" more than edging along a single line of traffic, moving at a snail's pace of 4 mph.  Really, 4 mph.  My friend's son Sean and I had a hearty laugh and imagined what all the other suckers were thinking as we inched through a maze of vehicles.  Sheer utopia!

I saw the Pacific coastline (SMILE) and the sound of the waves.  There is nothing more relaxing to me than the sites, sounds and smell of the coastline.  After a week, it was time to head to Santa Clarita, the Valley and other visits.  I stomped on old stomping grounds; as if this is some type of ritual when someone gets older and is faced with the realization that we are all mortal. Truth be told, the Valley has really taken a beating.  There are more and more homeless standing on corners these days.  The economy is taking its toll on the City of Angels.  Trust me when I say that its not that I lack compassion, but simply, that I no longer have spare change to give some people.  Wait, I think B. Hussein Obama has some "change"!

After one week in the Valley, I have headed east, to Phoenix, where I now bask in the joy of 95 degree days, sunshine and a good book.  Sadly, this leg of the trip is nearing an end.  I have heard that there has been snowfall in the 'Boat, (Steamboat, to the lay person) and the highs this week have not even crested 50.  Ugh, do I really need to go home? 

My mother has a dead tree in her front yard, and after some discussion it was thought that the best way in which to remove this scab on the desert landscape was to tie a rope/chain around it, hook it to my tow bar on my SUV, and yank.  However, this could have caused my front end to be forcefully removed if not gauged correctly - weight/force/etc...  I uttered in jubilation - Does a front end reconstruction allow me to stay throughout the winter?  Nope!  Darn.  I almost felt the need to head to Target for sun tan oil.

Alas, I should head the car north, towards the Rockies, and what awaits me.  Snow.  Of course, there are the high points of this idea. John is probably missing me, and the over use of the personal pronoun ******  "  I  "..!!!!

Friends and Fish

So, during my travels the past two weeks, one thing that remains steadfast and true is the old saying that visitors are like fish - and you should throw them out after 3 days.  They just might stink up the joint.

I suppose I am fortunate in that the friends I have are not the type of fish mongers that will cast me into some chum shark bucket, even after just 1 day.  I'd like to believe that I contribute enough to earn my keep.  I do their laundry, prepare dinners, clean houses and generally attempt to be more of a positive guest than a pebble in  a already tight fitting shoe.

Truth be told, it is my personality to give rather than take, so helping out around a friends' house seems like the very least I can do.  So far the two families I have stayed with have received tacos, burritos, dinner dishes done, floors, and even sheets changed on beds.  I only wish I could get more people to come visit my husband & I, so we could entertain at our house and allow people the luxury of feeling special.

Southern California has given me 13 days of decent weather, some gloriously sunny days, a surfing contest, a movie, some great food, not much traffic and some late nights of chattering away with friends.  What a joy!  But, even with all the wonderful aspects of this trip, I can help but miss my husband, and the peace & quiet that seems to go hand in hand with Steamboat Springs (but for noisy neighbors).  I have managed to compliment my tan, and even got a pretty decent blister on my heel from hiking out on the Channel Islands. (Ssh, please do not tell my orthopod, Dr. Sisk) The Pacific Ocean even offered up some great pictures of dolphins leaping out of the water, trailing our boat to and from Santa Cruz island.

So, in the next few days, I will begin the journey back to the "Boat...and predictions of snow.  However, I will be able to see my husband John, my other dog and cat, get back to work, and even sleep in my own bed.  I do plan to swing through Arizona, Phoenix in particular, and see my birth mother and GMA. 

No grand son yet, as of this typing.  I have a feeling that he will make a grand experience soon, and then my daughter will begin the ride of a lifetime; the circle will make yet another revolution, and I can pray that in 20 years or so, my daughter will come to the epiphany that I was not Joan Crawford in disguise after all.