I Don’t Like Halloween

 Please don’t hate me, but I don’t like Halloween. I never did. I don’t like to be scared. I don’t enjoy masks and costumes. And I really don’t like clowns!

I love Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But Halloween is different. It is intended to frighten.

When I was little, my mom made all of my costumes.

The first one was when I was twenty-six months old. My grandfather had just passed away, so she and my grandmother pinned a sheet around my neck. I think I look frightened in the photo.

One of my favorites was Little Bo Peep. I adored that one. It was pretty, and I got to carry my stuffed lamb. The “staff” was made from my great-grandfather’s cane, wrapped in crepe paper.

Another year, Mom took an old wine velvet dress of hers and made it into a princess costume. My dad painted a pair of my shoes in gold and made me a crown. I rather liked it.

When I got to grammar school, Mom made us several different simple costumes. One I remember was a graduate. She used a cotton blouse for a robe and made a “mortarboard” from cardboard and crepe paper.

I often forget how creative Mom was.

We always had a carnival at school, and they were fun. They weren’t meant to be scary. They featured games and contests. I remember the dunking machine. The older boys all wanted to sit on the seat so other boys (nearly all of those who tried to dunk them were also boys) could throw a baseball at a lever. If they hit it hard enough, the person on the seat would fall off into a tank of water.

A teacher or other staff member would take a turn during the day. Whoever the “mystery guest” was that year was the favorite target. I especially remember when the principal took a turn. He was a real surprise since he always seemed very formal and proper.

When Kim was little, I made her costumes as well.

The Halloween she was one, I made her an angel outfit. Her friend, Matt, who was a month younger, was dressed as a devil. He carried a pitchfork. Kim carried her halo, which she refused to wear.

A couple of years later, she was a bride. Once again, I fashioned her costume—this time from a set of curtains.

Next, she was a witch. (The hat and wig reappeared several more times in later years.)

When the TV show Isis was popular, Kim and her best friend, Cheryl wanted to be the superhero. So, Cheryl’s mom and I made the girls these outfits.

Later on, she and her work team were dalmatians. They wore hooded white one-piece pajamas, painted with black spots. These were really cute.

Okay, so I enjoy the cute and pretty costumes. I just don’t appreciate the scary ones.

Oh, and I do miss seeing the kids in their costumes. Most parents don’t let their little ones go from door to door anymore. Churches now have trunk-or-treat events. And many malls have trick-or-treating. I can totally understand parents’ reluctance to have their children visit neighbors, who may well be strangers. We have very few kids in our neighborhood. But I miss seeing the little ones.

Once Halloween is over, I look forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’ll start playing holiday music next week!

Our Children

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They came through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Kahlil Gibran The Prophet

I read this beautiful book many years ago, and its wisdom has remained powerful for me. The section on children is a reminder that our biological children are not extensions of ourselves but a gift we are given and pass on to the world. They are their own separate beings. Our task as parents is to help them become all they can be.

We had only one biological child, our daughter, Kimberly. We are proud of the beautiful human being she has become—perhaps in spite of us.

When she was growing up, we always took another child with us whenever we went somewhere so she would have company. Over the years, some of those were “added” to our family, like Donna, Erin, Savannah, and our godchild, Tracy. We are also close to our nieces and nephews. We would do anything for them.

When we moved to Dana Point nearly 35 years ago, we began to host foreign students in our home for “homestay” programs. They lived with us for between six and twelve weeks. They became our children. Most of them have returned to visit us here in California. Our Spanish daughter was Miss International. She is now an actress. Our six from Japan visited us during the time we lived there. We visited them, too.

Dad, Ikue, Fumiko, Yasuko with Daisuke, Kim, Vera (my mother), Mom, Kae, Yuko

Yasuko had a small child when we arrived. During our time there, she and her husband had a second. These are our only grandchildren. Make no mistake, they are ours.

Through church friends, we learned about Music Mission Kiev (Kyiev). They used to tour the US every other year, and the orchestra and choir members were housed in private homes. We hosted musicians for five of those tours. The last ones were young singers with the opera chorus. We have remained in contact with several of these musicians. When the attacks began on Ukraine, we immediately thought or our friends there. And we began to pray. Our prayers continue.

Last December, good friends in Texas hosted a Ukrainian orphan in their home for several weeks—including through Christmas. While she was there, our friend posted almost daily about the experience. They loved being able to give this precious little girl a real family and a special holiday to remember.

This morning, the “dad” posted this picture along with the final photo taken of him and her before they put her on the plane

“This was the last thing I used the translator for when I was taking our sweet girl to the airport to go back to Ukraine in January. She begged to not go back not even knowing this war was around the corner. Pretty heartbreaking to have a child who calls you dad living in a war zone and there is nothing you can do to change it…”

He gave me permission to use the photo of the two of them, but in order to protect their privacy, I have chosen not to. However, their looks gave little doubt about their mutual love for each other.

These images broke my heart. This little girl is truly their child, just as our “kids” are truly ours.

Our Japanese son arrived yesterday, and we are delighted to have him.

Do you have any children who are not related by blood but who are our hearts’ children?

A Year of Grief

A Year of Grief

One year ago today, a child we have loved since he was six ended his own life at seventeen. As his mother said, “The year went so fast, but the days seemed endless.”

We first met William when his mother left us a message while we were at work. “This is your neighbor. This is a call no parent wants to make. My son broke your window.” He was six at the time, a beautiful little boy with huge eyes. She ended the call with, “His father will bring him over on Saturday to apologize. Be tough on him.

I started laughing. Sure. Be tough? On a six-year-old?

However, on Saturday morning, he and his dad arrived. He apologized, and Larry and I managed to keep straight faces—barely. He was truly contrite. Thus began our relationship with his family, which eventually grew to six children.

In December, we asked their mother if we could “rent” the kids to help finish decorating our tree since I had run out of steam. There were only five at the time, but their cousin came, too. They trooped over, put the ornaments here, there, and everywhere, and I loved it!

When the tree was complete, they decorated the sugar cookies I had baked ahead of time with icing and lots of sprinkles. Of course, they had more inside them than the finished ones. And sprinkles covered every surface. They each had a small plate on which to put the three cookies they wanted to take home with them. I used the rest to serve my guests throughout the holiday season.

Bridget, their cousin, William, Wyatt, Audrey, Claire

The tradition continued through 2019. Last year, we had to cancel, not just because of Covid, but also because one precious child was missing.

I always considered William the most sensitive of the children. That first year, I told them each ornament on the tree had a story. (There are no “generic” ones.) William was the one who would bring me an ornament and ask me to tell him its story. This year, his younger brother, Wyatt, channeled William, asking about specific decorations.

Wyatt always hunted for two specific ornaments: a ceramic surfboard and a tiny wooden sailboat. (When I mentioned this, he described them both without any hints. He shared that memory with me.) Once he’d located them, he always stopped hanging anything else on the tree and sat on the sofa playing with them. (This year, he kept adding decorations to the tree, but he still set “his” ornaments aside.)

We told him he could choose one of the two to take home with him, but Larry added, “You need to leave one so you’ll return next year.” He decided to leave them both so he could hunt for them again.

The oldest child, Claire, always corralled the younger ones and kept them at it. She joined our critique group when she was ten! She was a terrific writer, even as a little girl. And she became one of our best critics. She published her first novel at sixteen. She is now a sophomore at the University of Notre Dame—on a scholarship.

Audrey, the next eldest after William, is my “angel girl.” She shares my love for angels. She is a sophomore in high school and was too busy to join us this year, but I sent home a couple of big angels for her.

Bridget, who is now in eighth grade, was the “messy” one. She was impulsive and demanding and so much fun. She was also independent and opinionated, and I must admit, I really liked those qualities. Now, she is kind and thoughtful and creative and deliberate. Yep, she is growing up, and it makes me a bit sad.

Wyatt has also grown up. His first year, he broke one ornament (to his mother’s chagrin) and spilled his hot cocoa. I didn’t care. I so loved having them there—and I still do.

The youngest, Sydney, who is now six, was only old enough to come starting in 2019. She, too, is growing up. She is creative and neat and enthusiastic.

Thank goodness we were able to have them again on Tuesday to help with the tree and cookies. Once again, they each got a mug of hot cocoa with five miniature marshmallows. And they each left with an ornament from my collection. Quite a few others already decorate their tree.

Lorna, Bridget, Sydney, Wyatt, and Larry

It wasn’t quite the same, and it never will be again. We will always miss sweet, dear William. But I am so grateful to their parents for sharing them with us through the years.

Christmas has now officially arrived in our home. 

Once a Bibliophile…

Once a Bibliophile…

Some of the oldest items from my childhood are the books my mother saved. They were my favorites, as evidenced by how worn out they are. I didn’t care what they looked like. I just loved them. By the time I was about two, I had memorized them anyway, so it didn’t matter if they were readable or not.

The oldest one I still have is a cloth book of Mother Goose Rhymes.

The edges are shredded, and loose strings hang off it. Mom wrote inside: From Daddy – March 1947.” I would have been seven months old.

I found a picture online of what it looked like before I destroyed it from loving it so much.

I contained “Baa, baa, Black Sheep,” “Little Bo Peep,” and “Jack and Jill,” among others. I knew them by heart.

I also had an extensive collection of Little Golden Books. I remember titles like “Scuffy the Tugboat,” “The Poky Little Puppy,” and “Tootle.” He was a train.

My favorite was the collection of poetry.

Not only is the cover nearly obliterated, but some of the inside pages are also torn out. (I suspect my brother may have had something to do with this.) This one says: from Aunt Evie and Uncle Ted Christmas 1947.

This is what the original cover looked like. In addition to many others, it contained my favorite: Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Swing.” I always loved the description of soaring so high. It was how I felt on a swing.

My grandfather read to me nearly every day of my life. When I was born, my parents lived in the “little house” behind my grandparents’ “big house.” My grandfather started it as a separate bedroom for his father. Eventually Great-grandpa moved to a nursing home, and Dad and Grandpa added a large, sunny kitchen to the living room/bedroom (with a Murphy bed) and half bath. It had only a sink and toilet. My parents had to go to the “big house” to shower or bathe.

My grandfather took the bus to work. When he came home, he walked by the “big house” and tapped on the breakfast room window so my grandmother knew he was home. Then, he came back to the “little house.”

When I was tiny, he held me and talked to me. He walked me around both of the houses pointing out everything he saw. “Picture.” “Book.” (Of course.) “Table.” “Chair.” By the time I was a year old, I had a fifty-two-word vocabulary. My mother didn’t think anyone would believe her, so she wrote all of them down in my baby book as I learned each one.

By the time I was about six months old, he started to read to me. Before long, I had a whole dresser drawer filled with Little Golden Books. Of course, I had my favorites.

Grandpa would read one. Then I would hop off his lap and get another. When he finished, he said it was time for him to go back to the “big house” to eat.

“Just one more, Grandpa.” Yep, I begged. And it worked. I might get him to read another one or two before he finally left for dinner.

When I was sixteen-months old, I memorized “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” You probably know it as “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” I always insisted on the original title.

My grandparents had friends over for a party, and Grandpa stood me on the dining room table (probably to Grandma’s consternation), and I recited the whole thing. Can you say “precocious”?

I see the current commercials advising parents to talk, read, and sing to their babies. In my case, I can say it worked.

Once a bibliophile, always a bibliophile.

Did you have a favorite book as a child?

My Favorite Photo

This is now officially my favorite photo. My high school friend and her husband visited with us a few weeks ago. One item on their agenda was a visit to Mission San Juan Capistrano. Both had gone there as children, but they hadn’t seen it lately.
 We had a wonderful day using both the audio tour from the mission and Larry’s comments about how specific places related to the story we told in our book, The Memory Keeper.

We arrived shortly after the mission opened, in time to see the Mission Garden Angels working on the grounds. This army of volunteers trims, plants, weeds, and generally takes care of all the flora in the mission every Wednesday morning. They maintain the water lilies in the fountains and keep the whole place looking its best. While there, we ran into several friends, including docents, the executive director, and the buyer for the mission store. We told them Lola, The Parrot Who Saved the Mission was published, and we expected our first copies at any time. Most of them remembered her name from a presentation we did for the docents a couple of years ago.

When we returned home, the package with our copies had arrived. We were able to send one home with our friends for their grandson, Taylor. Yesterday, she posted this photo to my Facebook profile. I am delighted. The look on Taylor’s face is exactly the reaction I’d hoped for when I first started this project. As of this week, both the store at Mission San Jun Capistrano and the Cottage Gallery on Los Rios carry the book. We hope all children who now visit the mission will know the name Lola and her story. Do you have your copy yet? It’s available on Amazon in print or ebook. It’s also available through our website. But if you are visiting San Juan Capistrano, why not pick up your copy at the mission store? We donate a portion of the sale of each book to the mission to help preserve this jewel.

Gone Too Soon

On Tuesday, February 27, at 10:00 a.m., we will celebrate the life of our nephew’s wife, Christina, at Sts. Simon & Jude Catholic Church in Westminster.

Early on Sunday morning, January 21, we received a call from Larry's brother, Casey, informing us that Christina, had died. Danny and Christina were not married for long, but our family loved her very much.

She was thirty-five years old, a kind and generous soul, who never turned away anyone in need. She would have given the shirt off her back if she felt someone needed it more, even if it were her only one. She cared deeply about people, especially her close friends, but her whole life revolved around her eleven-year-old daughter, Savannah.

We all adore this child. She is smart, funny, well behaved, and a terrific human being. Her mother deserves all the credit. The two of them were inseparable.

Savannah wrote a complete fantasy novel. Her mother told us about it on Thanksgiving Day, and I asked her to send it to me. Imagine my surprise when I read it and found it was excellent. In fact, it is better than some submissions I have received from the adults for whom I edit.

Savannah understands how to tell a story, how to create a story arc, character arcs, tension, and suspense. She has an impressive grasp of language and understands the value of dialogue. I went through the manuscript and identified a few small issues, but for the most part, it was well done.

Christina and Danny brought Savanna to our house one day between Christmas and New Year’s, when Savannah was on semester break. She stayed with us for a couple of hours while her folks went to the harbor. We discussed my questions about the book. She was articulate and came up with good solutions.

I had promised her as part of her Christmas present I would help her publish it. I intend to keep my promise.

Our greatest concern is the welfare of this wonderful little girl. Unfortunately, our nephew's family has little say about what happens to this precious child. We can do what we are asked and pray for the very best outcome.

Fortunately, she is currently living with her uncle and aunt. We are impressed with them. They responded in a levelheaded manner and now provide a stable environment for her. Her private school has waived tuition for the rest of the school year, so she will have continuity in her education. Her father will have custody, but he has granted her aunt and uncle temporary guardianship through the school year.

All of us around her feel an obligation to her mother to provide emotional support to her and to those around her. Christina had many close friends, and they want to help in whatever way they can.

I identify emotionally with Savannah. I, too, lost a parent as a child. I know how it feels to be set adrift without a rudder. I know about the large hole a parent leaves in a child’s life. And I know it never goes away.

Christina is gone far too young, and the rest of us around Savannah owe it to her mother’s memory to provide a stable and supportive environment for her child. Our hearts are broken for our nephew, Christina’s family, and her daughter. We feel helpless, and we would like to help in some way.

Right now, we’re taking one day at a time and doing whatever appears for us to do.

Have you ever had to deal with the death of a young person? Did you find anything of help? If so, what?