48,012 miles…that’s what the account balance showed when I logged onto my U.S. Airways Dividend Miles account back in early December. This posed more than a minor problem, because with 2012 coming like a freight train, I was still roughly 2,000 miles short of the coveted Gold Preferred frequent flyer status I’ve managed to rack up on largely personal travel since moving from California to the East Coast back in 2005. With no planned business meetings in December, this meant a discretionary trip would need to be taken sometime before the New Year. Unfortunately, it also meant the excursion would need to take place during the busy holiday travel period…but if you’ve suffered the indignity of boarding in Zones 2 through 5, or if you’ve had to check your carry-on luggage due to the lack of remaining overhead space, you’re willing to go the extra mile. BTW…wasn’t that a better than average  use of the often overused “extra mile” cliché?

After a mediocre year of flying around the country (Gold status is pretty paltry compared to the more elite Platinum and Chairman classifications of big time travelers), I really didn’t have the need to visit any particular person or place. So, this meant that other than the typical restrictive bustling holiday schedule we all have to deal with and the minimum 2,000 mile criteria, there was really no limitation on the any number of possible exotic destinations from which to choose. I had colleagues and friends traveling to such places as Cambodia, Thailand, Paris, Mexico, New Orleans, and Colorado, so the bar was pretty high. I thought about Fort Lauderdale, the Bahamas, and even a quick trip to Southern California, but at the end-of-the-day I decided to really live it up, and I went ahead and booked tickets to Fargo, North Dakota (my fifth trip to the region this year).

Now, I know what you’re thinking…you’re thinking about the movie Fargo. But you’re also probably contemplating other things…like consulting me about your next vacation, wondering whether or not I’m married, or my undoubtedly impressive SAT score (930…and I got caught cheating). You also may be pondering what kind of pretentious jerk would be so concerned about something as pretentious (straight out of the Department of Redundancy Department) as frequent flyer status that they would take an unnecessary trip in the midst of a hellacious holiday travel season? Well, I wish I knew what to tell you, but I guess the best suggestion I have for you is to reference the SAT score (BTW…not sure they calculate them the same way now, but back in the day 1600 was really good…930…not so much).

There is however a more defendable reason…and it has to do with the exponential decline of service and civility of air travel in general.  The Southwesternization of the airline industry has resulted in a Walmart-like approach to the overall flying experience, and flying first class (I get upgraded about 65% of the time if I travel at off-peak times) makes the now mostly unpleasant exercise almost tolerable. Sure, I suspect it would be better not to be so wrapped up in such superficial things as one’s frequent flyer status, but it would also help to be four-foot two inches tall and have fantasies about living life in a sardine can.

I’ve had to humbly walk past all those smug faces with their pre-flight beverages in First Class looking at me like they’re better than me…and I’ve sat in First Class arrogantly sipping a glass of red wine while sneering at the pillow toting peasants meekly filing by to the lower decks. I’d like to tell you it doesn’t matter, but B is better. It’s not like it’s better by just a little bit either…scenario B is markedly superior.

So, I’m sitting in First Class right now on the trip from Charlotte to my next stop in Minneapolis (had to fly to NC first from DC to rack up enough miles. Again…check the college entrance scores). I finished my second bag of Kettle Chips and had a couple glasses of OJ while the scrunched peons back in steerage shelled out 7 bones for a freaking cheese and snack plate (presuming there was one even available). Hey…it’s almost 7am and here comes the flight attendant again. “Pardon me, but may I have a black coffee with a splash of Jack Daniels please?” Oh yeah…it matters.

Most of you are probably off work relaxing this holiday week, so chances are you might not even need (or want) a Friday morning song. However if you do, and if you yearn to cling to that holiday feeling just a little while longer, take a few minutes to listen to this soothing seasonal gem. It’s a version you don’t always hear, and if you like holiday music,  it might just be a nice way to wrap up the year.

Happy New Year…and if I know or work with you, thank you for enriching my year…and my life.

Happy New Year

...and if you're itching to take a walk...think again.

So I’m finishing up dinner at a rather swank and very popular restaurant in Georgetown last night, when one of the guys (this was a work-related event) in our group of eight guys asks me how far away I live. I respond by telling him Cleveland Park, and round out my reply by noting that I could actually “walk home from here.” Now this chap was a life-long resident of the area, and because he knew I grew up in Los Angeles, I could see that he was concerned that I wasn’t aware of just how far it would be from the eatery home. He asked how far I thought it was, and I boldly responded that I was certain it was no more than a mile-and-a-half.

At that point, he tried to suppress a laugh and repeated my answer in a tone that suggested he thought the distance was much greater. He said “listen…you’re from LA but I grew up in this area. If you’re going to walk up Wisconsin you’re going to have to go up the hill, then down, then back up again before it flattens out just before one last hill up to the Cathedral.” After that, he promised there was still about a mile to get to where I said I lived. He urged me to catch a cab…or at least to hop on a bus to ride part of the way up Wisconsin. I thanked him for his concern, but privately thought it was sad that someone that grew up in the area would know less about the surroundings than me.

So…at the end of the evening, just before 9pm, I gathered my raincoat and headed up Wisconsin through the heart of Georgetown. It was a charming evening, and the juxtaposition of holiday decorations and folks dining outdoors (it was 65 degrees on this December 15^th night and very humid to boot) made for an almost magical atmosphere. As I walked up the Avenue amidst holiday laughter, clinking glasses and the hum of animated conversation, I remember thinking it odd that someone would suggest missing this charming short stroll and recommend opting for an antiseptic taxi ride instead.   

That first hill up Wisconsin seemed longer than I recalled, but I remember welcoming the exercise after a day, ok a week, ok a month, ok…since about the Fourth, of eating as though I thought I’d need to hibernate for the coming winter. The buzz of seasonal revelry seemed to fade as I left the businesses of Georgetown and entered a quieter neighborhood. It seemed like I’d been walking forever, and I was disgusted that the earthquake construction still meant the lights were out at the Cathedral thus rendering the nearby spires unseen on the horizon ahead. As I started up a second hill, I saw a sign that read “Welcome to Maryland.” OK, that’s a lie, but after walking across what seemed like the entire District, that’s what the sign should have said. The sign actually said something about Grover Park I think…but after schlepping up an endless hill in what seemed like August humidity, I was a bit dehydrated and delirious at this point. I remember thinking it sad that my acquaintance back at the restaurant couldn’t have been more considerate by forcefully conveying just how far it was. I began looking for cabs, but all of them appeared to be heading down into Georgetown, not northward toward my destination.

After walking for over thirty minutes, and probably close to 2 miles, I finally saw the Cathedral spires. Thankfully, they appeared close enough to touch. Unthankfully, they were still about ¾ of a mile in the distance.  As I quickened my pace towards Mass Ave, my clothes were soaked with perspiration. Thankfully though, my sweat soaked clothing was almost an afterthought compared to the ragging blisters forming on both of my feet. Just as a side note, if you decide to walk home across the freakin’ United States some evening, don’t wear black dress shoes.

Well, I finally arrived home well-after after 10pm, and while I was tired, soaked with sweat and though I sported several new large blisters, at least I was in a really bad mood.  What’s the point of all this? Well, if you consider yourself a friend, and if you have special knowledge of an area you’ve lived in all your life, you have a duty to share that information with open minded folks that simply may not know the local geography as well as you. This is especially true if they are contemplating something akin to the Bataan Death March. If you do so, you just might save a friend from the unfortunate situation that I found myself in just last night.

Well, gotta go. I don’t have my car so I have to take the Metro into work. Thankfully, the temperature has plummeted during this writing, so while it won’t be a comfortable walk temperature wise, at least the rapidly approaching cold-front means the wind is now gusting about 40mph.

BTW...if you close your eyes for a few minutes before the insanity of the work day and listen to a seasonal song...you might just lower your heart beat. Close your eyes...just do it. It will only take 3:21seconds and if it doesn't work...I'll refund your money.

Happy Holidays...

and before you blink..they'll be over.

Sometime back in September, amidst the hurricane of preparing for a large work-related conference, several work colleagues and dear friends lamented the insane pace. We naively fantasized about the post-conference down time, and talked with optimism about the coming Fall season and the prospect of chilling a bit during the quiet holidays that would soon follow. During the course of the conversation we dreamed about taking the time to see hillsides covered with vibrant changing leaves, covered bridges, maple syrup and festive fall recipes which included ingredients made from things like Butternut Squash (I was mostly listening at this point).

After talk of foliage, pumpkins and Turducken (made that up…but learned about it earlier this year and wanted to work in), we segued into our plans for the month of December, and romanticized the idea of chestnuts, roaring fires, holiday music, wine, ice skating on the Mall and relaxed evenings with family and friends. We talked about the sins of previous years…especially around failing to take the time to enjoy the holidays, and promised ourselves that this year would be different. We even kind of bragged about the wisdom and clarity that comes from advancing years (OK…this was really my advancing years), and essentially made a pact that we’d slow the clock long enough to really take in the magic of the coming season.

Well, this morning at about 2:35am my eyes opened abruptly and I immediately knew that would be no return to sleep. I began thinking that Christmas Eve was fifteen days away, and I’d yet to finish writing cards, or shop for any gifts, or take the time to even send emails (let alone cards) thanking folks for the thoughtful gifts, cards, lunches, Poinsettia plants, birthday celebrations, and other incredibly thoughtful things that have already come my way.

Worse, as the fog of slumber abated and I began to really cogitate, I dwelled on all that was left to do in the next few weeks, and thought even more about all the broken promises to meet a friend for a holiday lunch, or to grab a beer with a dear former work colleague, or to just sit on the couch for 15 minutes to gaze at the beauty of the tree.

Yesterday, while hurriedly walking back to work (after a nice but still too rushed lunch with a mentor and friend), I thought about the myriad of things that needed immediate attention back at the office. I began to stress about all that had to be done that afternoon, and none of it was even mildly connected to chestnuts, open fires, or any of the other things I dreamt about with my friends back in September. I even rudely dismissed a homeless person as he held out a styrofoam cup, and accelerated the pace of my gait in hopes of gaining a few extra minutes back at the office.

 

Sometime, in a period that will pass much quicker that the hours between right now (it’s 4:39 am EST) and tomorrow morning, I’ll blink and it will be Monday morning January 5^th.  It will likely be cold (really have no way of knowing that…just makes it more dramatic), and as I scrape the ice off my driver’s side windshield (won’t have time to do the passenger side) that dark post-holiday morning, I’ll glance up at the garland on the house and silently cuss the thought of taking down the decorations (the following Saturday when it will be even colder). Hopefully when I do they’ll still be plenty of ice on the car window because I won’t want to catch a glance of the aging man that’s managed to learn nothing…and has once again let another holiday season pass in blur.

Sadly, you’re not going to get much of value in these pages…but there is one repeated nugget that you really should heed. If you’re anything like me, slow the heck down and take time to relax. Life is so incredibly fragile, and the next couple weeks should be dedicated entirely to just chilling out and spending time with the family and friends that you love. Many of you won’t…and sadly…more pathetically really…I won’t either. Maybe though, we could all take a couple of minutes, and start this holiday Friday with a song.

Can’t though…just way too busy…

Just chill for a few minutes and close your eyes

BTW…sorry about all the misspellings and poor grammar (even Word is showing this as a sentence fragment). Would have loved to proof this thing…but I simply didn’t have the time.

...well actually, it's only Wednesday...and that makes today even better.

The first year I moved to the District of Columbia from California, I remember driving down Connecticut Ave to the IBEW Office at about 4:30am (I used to go to a nearby gym before work) on the day before Thanksgiving and the street was literally deserted.  The entire town seemed to be asleep, and as I crossed the Woodley Park bridge over Rock Creek, Michael Buble’s song “Home” began to play on the Wash, FM radio. I was so lonesome for Los Angeles, and I remember almost starting to cry when the haunting music started playing. Now, after living almost seven years on the east coast, I’m often amazed that no particular place feels like home…except maybe the few days every couple of years that I’m able to spend in North Dakota.

So, while I typically feel you can’t ever really go home again (especially when you’re not sure where it is), this past weekend I came pretty close. After spending the better part of the week at an IBEW conference in Las Vegas, I shot over to LA for the weekend and after years of being away, I was amazed at how much it felt like home.

I had a luggage nightmare when I arrived at LAX on Thursday evening, so I stayed by the airport on the Westside of town in the neighborhood where I grew up. The next morning I picked up an attorney colleague and dear friend at LAX (flew into LA for the MLS championship), and we cruised up to Malibu on Pacific Coast Highway to have lunch on the outside patio at an old haunt called Gladstones that literally sits right on the beach. After that, we shot up to the Pepperdine campus before turning around and heading back to Los Angeles.

We drove through West Los Angeles, and passed my elementary school in Cheviot Hills. We then cruised by the old house on Esther Avenue, the high school, the Beverly Hillcrest Hotel where we  had our (my wife and me…not the attorney) wedding my reception, through Beverly Hills where I had my first apartment and then through the mid-Whilshire District to downtown Los Angeles. That evening we went over to watch Dorsey High take on Fairfax High (where I coached for many years) in an inner-city playoff game at a field adjacent to the Dorsey campus. The police helicopters circling overhead before the game...only added to the atmosphere.

The next morning I checked out of the Wilshire Grand in downtown and drove west on the Santa Monica Freeway toward Beverly Hills. I met my friend Chuck at a Starbucks in Beverly Hills just north of my old apartment on Beverly Drive. As I sat there chatting with him and listening to Bing Crosby singing holiday songs while looking out the window (I was looking out the window…Bing was singing) at the intersection of Beverly and Charliville…I realized how familiar it all seemed. After saying goodbye to Chuck, I drove west bound on Wilshire towards Westwood passed the Diplomat (the first jobsite I was ever dispatched to as an electrical apprentice) and passed the UCLA campus where my short-lived Bruin football career crashed and burned in the ugliest of ways. As I entered the onramp to the northbound 405 toward the San Fernando Valley for the drive up to my mom’s place in Santa Paula, I realized that like it or not, Southern California really was home. Now however…it’s happily in DC…and as I drove up the 405 that morning, I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to get back to the District.

With the litany of challenges, losses and setbacks facing so many, it's not always easy feel particularly thankful. However for the best of reasons, I'm hopeful you are able to find your own slice of holiday blessing. 

Not sure where you’re headed this Thanksgiving, nor whether or not you’ll even go over a river or through any woods. However whatever you’re doing and wherever you’re traveling, I hope get a break from the hustle and bustle to have some time to chill with family and friends. Whether it’s by a fire, sipping a glass of wine, or watching the palm trees sway in LA, have a wonderful and well-deserved holiday.

If you’re on the road, travel safely…we need to make sure you all make it home again.

Happy Thanksgiving

A Thanksgiving tune just for you...

...actually...it's only Thursday...and tomorrow is Veteran's Day.

“There goes the Arizona…there goes the California…there goes the West Virginia.” I don’t remember being spellbound too many times as a kid while sitting at the dinner table in my Los Angeles boyhood home, but the night my Uncle Ted recounted his experiences on a December morning in Hawaii in 1941 is etched in my mind as well as any childhood memory. Like a lot of his peers (and just about every one of my other relatives of that generation that I ever knew), I don’t recall Uncle Ted talking much about his WWII service. However for whatever ever reason on that night, he uncharacteristically provided a thorough account of much of what he remembered from that harrowing morning.

He was relaying the radio reports of a fellow Navy Officer who was providing almost  play-by-play account of the attack from his perch above high above one of the other U.S. warships. I couldn’t have been more than about 10 years old at the time my uncle told that story, which means the actual events had happened less than 30 years before (less time that I’ve now been out of high school). To attempt to retell my uncle’s story wouldn’t do it justice, but I remember being amazed, even at my young age, at the apparent chaos and horror conveyed through his graphic account. He always seemed like such a relaxed, reserved and mellow man.  However on this night while recounting the events from that morning in Pearl, he seemed like an almost a different person.

Over the course of my life, I can recall only a handful of similar times when I had the privilege of hearing from Veterans that served in the military and in battle. One of those times was listening to my own dad recounting the time his carrier, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, was hit by two Kamikaze planes in the Pacific in January of 1945. Actually, for some reason, I had heard that story a couple of times…always as a result of my own coaxing. I always got the sense he didn’t like to talk about it, but I suspect as much to teach me about the the horrors of war, he typically repeated the story in an unemotional and matter-of-fact way.

The last time he told the story was in response to a request I made at the dinner table on a Christmas Eve sometime in the late 1990s. It dawned on me that my wife Julie had probably never heard the account, so I asked my dad to recount the events of that January day. My father reluctantly obliged, but as he moved through the story this particular time something was different from the usual nonchalant tone that he typically used to paint the picture. On this holiday night, as he recounted the horror of what he saw on the fight deck immediately after the attack, he began to cry.

Quite thankfully, I don’t have any stories about military service, or tales connected to the dreadful nature of battle. I can’t tell you about the trenches of Europe, the cliffs at Normandy, the jungles of Southeast Asia or the deserts of the Middle East. I can’t tell you about watching a buddy get cut down by machine gun fire, parachuting into a hail of gunfire, dodging roadside bombs or wearing the same underwear for months on end. I’ve never froze in a foxhole outside Frankfurt or boiled over in a bunker near Bagdad. As a matter of fact, due to timing, luck, and probably a relative life of privilege, I never had to suffer in battle on foreign land.

Sure…I do have legitimate stories of sacrifice here at home. Just in recent months alone, there are sobering tales of clogged shower drains, broken sink p-traps, non-functioning ATM machines and navigating paralyzing gridlock traffic while attempting to commute 4.6 miles home up 16^th Street. One recent Sunday, I was literally stranded when the battery died on my Harley while in Alexandria, VA (not exactly friendly territory) and I needed a jumpstart from a complete stranger. Just this week, I was literally schvitzing up a storm while sitting on the couch in my office…something to do with the temperamental thermostat. Just this very morning, I’m grappling with the hassle of walking to the Metro (and it’s kinda cold) versus driving in and having to fight the pre-holiday traffic on the way home.

Thinking back, people like my uncle Ted and my father never really had a fair appreciation for my own struggles here on American soil. On the eve of this Veteran’s Day, I’m awfully grateful for the sacrifices they made on foreign land…so I have the luxury of suffering here at home.

A couple of years ago we were travling with another couple over in France. We had headed out to Normandy for the afternoon...and after getting lost, we arrived on the cliffs about sunset. As darkness set in, there were lights twinking from a what appeared to be a small town at the bottom of the cliffs right next to the beach. We made our way down to the charming hamlet of Arrowmanches and walked into a near deserted cafe. As we sat down at the table...this song started to play.

Happy Veteran's Day

BTW...absolutely no time to proof today...so I apologize for the many likely mistakes.

...and you really should do your best to enjoy the weekend.

There are a lot of cool things about my current job, but one of aspects that offers the most tangible sense of accomplishment comes from the opportunity to teach as an adjunct several times a year in classes for union organizers. For me, it’s almost like smoking crack (I mean…so I’m told), and the therapy I get from spending an afternoon outside of the office and out in the field with the people doing the work in the trenches is beyond my feeble ability to describe. Usually, I am privileged to do a communication’s piece around skills needed when talking to unrepresented workers, or open shop employers, however this last time around, I did a new segment for advanced organizers on avoiding burnout.

Now, like just about everything else, I have zero academic expertise in the area of burnout. As the former head of a large contingent of construction organizers, and having been one for many years myself, I did feel as though I had some practical knowledge on the subject, but no textbook expertise. So…as I always do when I need to find out how to repair the belt on the clothes dryer, or the name of a buttery Chardonnay, or to diagnose shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my lower abdomen, I began surfing the internet.

While perusing the online material on the subject of burnout, it was tantamount to what happens to me just about every morning these days (OK…every morning). It was, for lack of a better analogy, like the horror that accompanies my first morning glance into the bathroom mirror (I have to put a dimmer on that light switch). Despite the fact that it happens every single day, I am still shocked and disappointed each and every morning…and I cannot fathom how things went so wrong so fast (actually…that’s the problem…it took a long time to get this bad). I could have a house on the water in Fort Lauderdale for all the money I’ve spent on those useless anti-wrinkle creams.

 As I read through the differences between stress and burnout, and the consequences of letting both go untreated, I recognized immediately that I was reading about me. Sadly, it was apparent that years of mounting stress and my failure to deal with it was resulting in my own burnout, and it was a difficult and sobering recognition that I had let things get way out of hand. I won’t bore you with all the details, but perhaps the best analogy I came across is this. If you feel like you’re an eight-ounce glance and someone is trying to pour a one-gallon pitcher of water into you…you’re under stress. If you feel like your glass is empty…you might be burned out. My glass is too often bone dry. If you feel like every day is a bad day, if you’re often exhausted, or if you feel like nothing you do makes a difference or is the least bit appreciated, you may be beyond stress and into burnout.

The good news is that burnout is reversible, which is why I’ve plunged headlong into increased tobacco consumption, heavy drinking, copious amounts of trash TV, reapeating myself and heavy drinking. OK…truth be told, I’m not sure that is the best medicine but I haven’t surfed yet on fixes and cures…too busy trying to self-diagnose this tightness in my chest.

I have a feeling one of the remedies is taking it easy, and because no one of us is going to turn this thing around by ourselves, there really is no reason to drive ourselves into the ground trying to do it alone. We are all reminded repeatedly of the fragility of life, and in recognition of those signposts, we owe it to ourselves and our families to just chill a bit. Who knows, if we were actually refreshed, clear-headed and well-rested enough, we may actually be sharp enough to figure out how to turn this thing around.

If you’ve ever wandered into a saloon down were Bob Wills is still the king, you’ve probably heard this snappy little tune. There are literally a hundred versions of this song, and I like this particular one because it is one of the longest. The sawing fiddle, steel guitar and piano won't be everybody's thing...but I'm hopful it puts a smile on your face nonetheless.

Have a wonderful fall weekend. The weather is supposed to be splendid, with sunny skies, colorful leaves and temps pushing the upper 60s. Go do something fun…recharge your batteries, step away from the chaos, laugh, crack a smile…and feel appreciated.

 This could be my theme song...

...and Monday is Halloween

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota, there is a quintessential mid-western small town that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going. The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a lumber yard, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have been in towns in Minnesota…where every single of the businesses have closed…except the saloon.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had been the local hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900s (my mother was born there), and we would spend days driving around the country with my Grandpa as he told stories about the old days.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack...but there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie. Oh this night…it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even cooler) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the ground. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy June night…especially with the weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery…and I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about Plain’s folks…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, with an electric storm about to break. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for free) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys (many of whom I was related to in some way…you may start hearing the banjo music from Deliverance in your head). They reveled in my stories of rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…and he leaned over and asked me if I was sure that I saw her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt. I asked what the big deal was…at which point he told me that she had passed away the previous winter.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only I was drinking that night was diet Pepsi. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but there just wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that folks really get into it.  So…have a fabulous and festive holiday weekend. It’s going to feel like the season…so make it a good one and do something really ghoulish.

This ain't the Monster Mash