They're Coming To Get You, Barbara

Halloween is not my favorite holiday. Yes, I know some people really get into it with the scary decorations and the skeletons and the ghosts and the well, you get the point. I never really liked being scared, unlike my husband, who has seen every scary movie ever made.

When we first started dating and into the early years of our marriage, I tried to be accommodating. Once or twice a year I would agree to watch something he wanted to watch. I guess people need a break from romcoms. (I don't know why?)

We started out slow. I can do the black and white Bela Lugosi movies and of course, if you're from Pittsburgh, you have to have Night of the Living Dead on your 'Have Seen' list. I am proud to say I know one of the zombies from the film, he was a co-worker of my husband, and I worked with the legendary Bill Cardille (Chilly Billy), who played the news reporter. I could not brag about these unless I saw the movie.

As scared as I was to watch the film, the part that came after made seeing the movie even more memorable. My husband, despite loving a good horror flick, can be easy to scare. As we laid in bed, in the dark, about to fall asleep, I uttered, in the most chilling voice I could mutter, one of the classic lines from the film, "They're coming to get you, Barbara." He jumped out of bed so quick. My roaring laughter for the next 15 minutes made the whole night worthwhile.

When I was little, I remember one Halloween when our neighbor decided to get into the spirit of the holiday. He was an older gentleman and didn't mean any harm, but he was able to scare the pants off of the young family next door. A short time after trick or treating was over, he snuck onto our front porch with a skeleton head with glowing eyes. I guess he had the head attached to something he could move up and down because the head went from the front window to the three diamond shaped windows on the top of our front door.

My mom called my dad, who was working night turn, and explained what had happened, basically looking for comfort. At the time, she had two kids under 7 plus a baby and was pretty worked up. The next day my dad got to the bottom of it and let's just say this neighbor kept his tricks to himself in the future.

But being scared has never been part of our family Halloween celebration. It is about carving the cute pumpkins, smiley ghost decorations and tame costumes. I think the scariest character my kids have chosen to be for Trick or Treat is Dracula. That was one of my favorite costumes because my oldest was young enough to want to still dress like his dad. The two were a fang-tastic team which made singing and acting out the following lines from the Monster Mash even more meaningful: "The zombies were having fun. The party had just begun. The guests included Wolf Man, Dracula and his son."

My youngest still has Halloween parties at  school and I continue to dig out the token witch costume I've worn three years in a row. It has cute green and black stripey tights, pointy hat and black dress. What lady over 40 turns down the chance to wear a slimming black dress? I choose not to show off the grey strands of hair that are attached to the hat. I have natural grays baby. I don't need any help in that department.

I do dress up to hand out candy on Halloween night. My husband takes our kids around the neighborhood and I mingle with the Trick or Treaters. I have had my sights on a family costume theme, but this has never seemed to work out. We did come close years ago when we did characters from the Cartoon Channel show Adventure Time. We had a baby Jake the dog, Beemo, Marceline, The Vampire Princess, and I was the Flame Princess. My husband, who was supposed to be Finn, worked downtown and had to navigate through rush hour traffic. By the time he arrived on the scene, Trick or Treat hours were almost over and meltdowns were in full effect.

Ever since, I have tried to get everyone on board but now that my oldest is 16, he does not want any part of it. My daughter has approached me to see if we can team up and I am considering it. I think she feels sorry for me not getting my wish, but I guess I'll take what I can get. With only a few days left to come up with a costume, the clock is ticking. Her initial idea was Ursula and Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I think with a red wig, green pants and construction paper sea shells across my chest, I might be able to pull this off.

Hey Nineteen

My husband and I recently celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. The day was a low key affair (gearing up to the 20th) as we both had to work and the kids had to be taken to their nightly designated activity, but at least we were able to go out for dinner just the two of us.

The celebration got me thinking about how so many things have changed in 19 years, but some remain the same. One thing that happens like clockwork is the annual placing of the Biederlack blanket on our bed when the weather gets cold. My youngest calls it the mommy blanket. (He has a special blanket of his own so he knows the importance of such an item.)

We received the blanket as a wedding gift 19 years ago. I don't exactly remember opening this gift to be honest. We didn't register at any department stores and I didn't have a wish list at all. Any presents on the gift table were a complete surprise. I wanted people to select a gift they thought would come in handy for a newlywed couple. I have to admit, the blanket did not get much use during our first couple years of wedded bliss. Living near Virginia Beach, the winters were a little less harsh than they are in western PA.

I had never heard of a Biederlack blanket. Doing research for this column, I discovered they were once manufactured and distributed in Cumberland, Maryland. This brings the gift into perfect focus now as my friend, who gifted the blanket, grew up there and I would imagine people from Cumberland had great pride for this well made, once locally produced item.

According to Wikipedia, in 2009, the Biederlack company ceased its North America manufacturing operations. I had no idea, years ago, that this warm, soft, white blanket, made in Cumberland, according to the tag which is worn but can still be read, would make the almost two decade journey down life's bumpy road.

I still have quite a few wedding gifts that have lasted almost two decades including: a wall grandfather clock, a 50 cup coffee maker, a roasting pan, a few other kitchen gadgets, and the angel that sits on my Christmas tree. I am happy that I still have a lot of these items. Personally, I think they mean more to me than things my husband and I would have chosen on a registry.

There are things, like the 50 cup coffee maker, that I never would have selected at age 25, not knowing how often it would come in handy at many a church or reception type function. Also, the roaster, I did not envision making a turkey dinner when I first got hitched. My husband and I lived on Hamburger Helper in the beginning, no joke. But now, the roaster has been instrumental in not only turkey dinners, but cooking the Easter ham and racks of baby back ribs.

It is nice to look at these items from time to time and recall the person or persons who brought them into our journey. I have a lovely crystal serving dish and bowl from my cousin who now lives in Iowa. Life has a way of moving people around and it is nice to remember how on a rainy October day, our closest friends and family were together to see us take the first of many steps as husband and wife.

Luckily, we received some pretty wonderful wedding gifts because my husband and I have not been big gift givers on our anniversary. Looking back, I wish we would have observed the traditional gifts for each year. It would have been nice to have a collection of 19 things to look back on from each milestone year. We did assemble a collection of three kids, the gifts that keep giving and taking.

According to the internet, the gift for #19 is jade. My husband and I both missed the memo on the that but apparently, according to Hallmark's official wedding anniversary website, Chinese take-out from Jade Palace would have fulfilled that particular anniversary celebration. I could have served it on my cousin's crystal serving dish. I wonder what our fortune cookies would have said?

Oven mits received at my bridal shower. Yeah, she is missing a nose but after 19 years who hasn't lost a thing or two?

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Red River Regret

 A couple Christmases ago, I put together a scrapbook about my paternal grandfather's service in World War II. All I had to work with was a box filled with papers and a few photos. I tried to put everything in order the best that I could, but I had no one to ask for help. Both he and his wife, my grandmother, were deceased. I had lots of questions especially when I found out he helped work on radios making sure communications were transmitted smoothly.

It was interesting to me that my grandfather had this particular job in the service. Even though he died when I was only 12, one thing I knew for certain is that he loved music. He had quite the set up in his home - his very own music room consisting of two turntables, a reel to reel player and shelves upon shelves of records.

I bet being in the service, far away from home and his own record collection of big band, jazz and country western hits, a radio was probably the next best thing. As a cash-starved teenager, I also had a deep appreciation for my radio. Before the days of digital music abundantly at our fingertips, waiting by the radio to hear the Top 8 at 8 was crucial. Hearing a favorite song come on just in time to hit record on the portable cassette player, priceless.

When I started taking piano lessons, my grandfather went out and bought a bunch of sheet music to some of his favorite songs so I could learn to play them. The songs were too hard for me, as a beginner, who was not naturally endowed with sight reading ability. So they sat in my piano bench waiting for my talent to mature.

While we were waiting for that to happen a song he liked came around in my piano lesson book number 2. Good old Red River Valley. I think my dad really wanted me to play that song for him which is why I had to bring that book with me to a gathering at my aunt and uncle's house. Bad news though, they did not have a piano with 88 keys. They had an organ - a multiple keyboard organ. Not the same at all.

I dreaded playing this song because I knew I would screw it up. I probably could have muddled through it, but I wanted it to be perfect. I didn't like to make mistakes and I was scared silly to play in front of people in the first place, even with familiar equipment. So I ended up making some excuse and not playing it at all.

Regret is a tough pill to swallow even at the age of 12. I never did get to play that song for my grandfather because he passed away a few weeks after that family gathering.  I would be lying if I said hearing that song, to this day, doesn't make me feel bad. I still have all the sheet music he bought me years ago, but since my piano career fizzled, learning how to play those songs did too.

There have been a lot of tears shed during the past two months each time I've watched my children perform with the the East Allegheny Marching Band. The show takes the audience back in time to the famous Birdland jazz club in New York City where people like Count Basie, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Miles Davis performed.

The music is brass and bass heavy with a show stopping drum solo. I think my grandfather would have enjoyed seeing his great-grandson slappin' the upright bass, wearing a tuxedo no less, like the great Walter Page of the Count Basie Orchestra.

I hope to one day have the time to devote to the sheet music my grandfather selected for me decades ago. I would love to learn how to play those songs just for the closure and peace it would finally provide. But until then, I'll be tapping my foot through the tears in Birdland and hoping in Heaven the music is in stereo not mono.

A couple albums I saved from Grandpap's collection.

Lagom

If you don't know what the word lagom means, that's ok.

I didn't know either until a few weeks ago. It is the Swedish word for not too much not too little, in moderation, just enough.

My daughter brought a book home from the library about the art of living lagom. I didn't see the book until it was 3 weeks overdue and I received an email about the fines that were accumulating. (Not very lagom ironically.) I went through her room trying to find this particular publication. Upon retrieval, I noticed its mere appearance was appealing; a soft blue color with comforting drawings of flowers, fish, a teapot and a bicycle. I was curious. I started to read.

As I paged curiously through this book about living moderately, the wheels of revolution started turning in my head. "The time for change is now" were the words I was hearing in my head and I was ready to stand up for all things lagom, on a much smaller scale.

I have had an affinity for Scandinavian things since I was young. The name Kristen has Scandinavian origin. The fifth largest city in Norway is Kristiansand. (Spelling close enough to my name.)  My family celebrates the feast of St. Lucia each year on December 13, the day that kicks off the Christmas season in Scandinavia, when the oldest daughter in the family dresses in white with a crown of candles and delivers cinnamon rolls to her loved ones. (I am not sure if this one isn't more about the cinnamon rolls than the Scandinavian connection.)

I have always wanted to visit the Nordic countries. Of course, not during January when in Stockholm, Sweden, the sun rises at 8:47 a.m. and sets at 2.55 p.m. As a Leo, this girl needs her sun. But my chances of getting there any time soon is slim. My daughter's book made it seem like a little piece of Scandinavia could be hiding away in my home. In my very own bedroom.

It was 13 years ago when, I, along with my husband and two of our children, moved into our current house. In the decade plus that we've lived there, every room, excluding the paneled basement, has been painted. Every room except one - our master bedroom.

Obviously you focus on keeping high traffic areas nice. The kitchen, living room, dining room - the places people gather during family gatherings. As the kids have gotten older, their rooms have gone through a couple color changes. The room I sleep in has stayed white. Plain old white.

We came real close to eliminating that white two Aprils ago when we actually bought paint for the room, but never got to the painting part. Although, when you already have paint on hand it is pretty good incentive for when the motivation finally strikes, and strike it did this past weekend. But before the painting could happen, the purging had to happen. Remember, not too much, just enough.

I found baby socks, decades old bills and a few dust bunnies the size of a small rodent in this room. It appears our bedroom became a storage area of sorts. A place were things go to die. Don't misunderstand. This is not hoarder level I'm talking about just well maintained clutter.

But being lagom is great for helping decide what should stay and what should go. What do you think happened to the dust bunnies? You guessed it. Gone! Unmatched socks? Gone! Phone bill from two years ago when we still had a landline? Gone! I have nine things sitting on top of my dresser right now, paired down from what once looked like Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.

What can I say? Life and kids got in the way but I finally took control of my Viking ship and after a paint job and the purchase of new curtains, the first phase of my lagom revolution was complete. Caution: waiting almost two years to use a can of paint might cause color to not be what was originally chosen. In my case, it was a happy ending. Our ginger peach turned into a sunflower yellow and sunflowers are my favorite.

 I, along with my family's help, created a space of solace, my escape, my home within my home. For this I am bursting with gratitude. Some closets and dresser drawers are also bursting, with items I couldn't part with just yet, but that is a lagom project for another day.

I Need A Hero

I know this sounds silly, especially in terms of a Sunday afternoon watching football, but that is simply what it takes for me. If I am going to sit down, devote 4 hours of my day putting on the pounds, eating cheese, meats, crackers and dips, it better be worth it.

Yes, I need a hero.

So what exactly is my point, you might be asking yourself. I am not a huge football fan. I have shared this fact before and although many who hear this might say, "What? A girl from Pittsburgh, not a football fan? Show her the video of the Immaculate Reception stat!!!"

I get it. Football is so ingrained in the fabric of our lives here, having such a proud dynasty of successful Super Bowl runs, but for me it is more about, as Martin Luther King said, the content of their character. If I am going to root for you, I want to root for you, on and off the field. I don't want to hear about Twitter rants, womanizings, blunt rollings or DUI's when you are not scoring touchdowns.

That is why I liked Landry Jones. He was real folk to me. Just a God fearing guy who once in a while got a chance to rally his team and take them to the endzone. I was sad to see him go, although I knew the writing was on the wall. In fact, once the team picked up Mason Rudolph, I knew 'Having A Black and Gold Christmas' was not the carol Landry would be singing in December.

Then comes the saga of Le'Veon Bell. I know he is talented. He is one of the Killer B's but when you don't show up for training camp, or practice or games because your $14.5 million franchise tag is  considered an insult because of what other guys are making, shame on you. I can't fathom that amount of money and to me, anything over $1 million I wouldn't sneeze at.

A local sports writer a few weeks back tried to defend Bell in an article he wrote and I, Little Miss Non-Sports, read it. I went into it with an open mind hoping to get some kind of clarity on the subject of his absenteeism, but the staggering figure, the amount of money we are talking about, I could not get past.

I am a team player and I want my team to have team players. Bell may be taking a stand but I don't think, and tell me if I am wrong, I can support his position as he hangs his team out to dry.

It has been a rough couple of years for me because I am passionate about my players on and off the field. My husband on the other hand greets every game with the enthusiasm of a Super Bowl and doesn't care what a player did last week, last month or ten years ago. But much like Santa, I've got a list and I'm checkin' it twice and on game day I remember and my cheers are selective.

I know that my living room protest means nothing in the grand scheme of things. It may seem silly to some and that is ok because now I have a hero. I have number 30, James Conner. I was rooting for him against the Browns and I was rooting for him against the Chiefs. Watching his one handed catch blew my mind and he earned my support ten fold.

Conner's story is one only Dickens could top. Conner's enthusiasm, talent and spirit is something inspirational, and is something I can feel good about my seven-year-old looking up to.

I know it is a lot to ask for athletes to be people we can admire, but I am total package kind of gal. I am not expecting a bunch of saints on the field. I get it, we are all human. No one is perfect. But for $14.5 million dollars, I expect a little more and for $578,000, (Conner's salary according to Wikipedia) it appears Steelers' management might have gotten a lot more bang for way less bucks.

Drawing Nolan made during summer vacation.

Living The Dream, Again

One of the greatest joys of being a parent is watching my kids participate in something I enjoyed as a child. I tried my hand at a few things while growing up including, but not limited to: gymnastics, ballet, Slovak dance group, piano lessons, cheerleading, clarinet lessons and finally marching band.

That is quite an impressive resume if I do say so myself but, before you get the impression that I was a child phenom, let me present the reality. Gymnastics lasted a few classes until the teacher said to my mother, "Get that thing off the balance bar." I'm guessing not because I was so talented I didn't need further practice.

 Ballet lasted a few classes until the teacher quit and cheerleading, well that was a two year deal in Catholic middle school when there was nothing else to participate in so, despite rockin'  the tight perm, large glasses and the braces, I gave it a go. I was so totally not cheerleading material and probably concussed myself a few times doing somersaults on the hardwood floor.

We were supposed to tuck our heads and roll, but my head always seemed to make contact with the floor before each of my vertebrate followed suit. The best part of cheerleading were the awesome black and white saddle shoes I sometimes got to wear. Fashion first, you know.

My kids do participate in a Tamburitzan group but their involvement was completely coincidental. (No influence or coercion on my part wanting Slovak dreams of yore to come true.) We happened to attend a tea at a nearby church when my daughter was about 6 and the entertainment was of the ethnic variety. Once she saw the group perform she said,  "I want to do that." This lead to a seven year adventure for two of my three kids.

But my passion during my teen years was marching band. I remember attending a high school football game during my freshman year and seeing the band perform at half time. I turned to the friend I was with and, much like my daughter at the tea, said, "I want to do that." Funny thing, my friend said the same thing too. The following year she and I were both on the same field, me with my clarinet and my friend with her flag in the color guard.

Those years, as I have written about before, were so influential. At the time I had no clue how much my involvement in band would mean to me and how the lessons learned during those three years would resonate throughout the course of my life. I guess the biggest lesson is how hard work and dedication eventually pays off and how being a part of team is a gratifying experience. When all parts work together, something beautiful is created and I am proud of what we as a group,  and I as a player, accomplished during the late 80's and early 90's.

So when I had children of my own it was a dream of mine that maybe someday they too would participate in band. I spoke of this over the years, not often, and not like, 'When you are of age you will follow in my footsteps and you will make music on a football field, in a uniform, as I cheer and cry from the bleachers." Nope, that never happened.

What did happen was that last year my daughter had to choose between cheerleading and color guard. She asked my opinion on what she should do. I bit my tongue, not wanting to purposefully influence her to make my dream come true,  but desperately wanting to say, "Color guard, color guard, color guard!!" I wanted her to look at both activities objectively and make the right choice for her. She chose on her own and, whether or not my past played any role in her decision, I was happy to know there were years of marching band in my future.

What happened this year was not expected at all. I now have two kids on the field. My oldest son, as a junior, was asked to fill a void left vacant by a graduating senior who played the upright bass. Up until this point, my son had only been involved in orchestra with his cello. I gave up on having a playing member in the band, just happy to be there in any capacity as a guard mom. This new development has brought me great joy two fold and double the emotion while watching them perform. Although it is much harder to watch two kids than just one. (At least my son is stationary.)

I hope their band experience is as good if not better than mine. I have already seen both of them grow personally because of their experience. Becoming more responsible, practicing on their own, being a good team player, these are things that will translate well in the real world.

So much emphasis these days is placed on sports and the time and dedication behind the scenes - but there are similar skill sets needed to be a good performer. These kids work hard and are dedicated for sure. There are evening and weekend practices, Friday night football games and Saturday competitions. To watch their show progress from the start of the season until the end in November is like watching a caterpillar turn into a butterfly. Once their wings are ready, these kids can soar to the highest heights.

A Matter of Faith

The story is everywhere.

You cannot get away from it.

It is unfathomable. It is sickening.

As a Catholic, which I don't say out loud much these days, I cannot wrap my head around the recently released grand jury report. You've seen the news stories so I won't go into any details. Many of us are struggling. I know this because I've spoken with fellow Catholics, family and friends, and we just don't know where to go from here.

I am not a practicing Roman Catholic. I was baptized in the Byzantine Rite, which falls under the Catholic umbrella and puts us under the leadership of the Pope, but we have our own bishops and governing hierarchy. Our services are more Orthodox than Roman oriented. Since setting out on my own, I have been practicing the Byzantine faith steadily for about 20 years.

When I was little, my family would attend Roman Catholic services occasionally if we could not make it to our usual 11 a.m. Divine Liturgy. I never attended Roman services enough to become particularly close with any of the priests until college.

During my freshman year at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown, I often attended Sunday mass. It was comforting for my mom to know I was going to church while away at school and, even though there was not a Byzantine service in our non-denominational chapel, there was a Roman Catholic one each Sunday. My attendance each week led me to come to know the priest who celebrated mass, Fr. Joe, and I eventually joined the Newman Group, a club for young Catholics like myself.

This group was very important to me because I was living away from home for the first time and I needed to be a part of something familiar. I had a lot of questions and concerns and our meetings provided an opportunity to pray, discuss different topics and get a fresh perspective from a priest who felt like one of us.

He was down to earth, and easy to talk to. He was different from any priest I had encountered up to that point. He made me feel like a peer instead of a kid. Fr. Joe was someone I could go to and talk and I really needed that freshman year as my parents were going through a tough time back home. I needed security and the Newman Group provided that.

We even went on a weekend retreat to a local bed and breakfast. We made our own meals, ate tons of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups covered in whipped cream and had rap sessions at night. It was nice to talk candidly with a priest and be taken seriously. I felt like he answered our questions without the fire and brimstone answers we were used to getting. It made me feel good to know things weren't as black and white as they had always seemed growing up. I felt like I grew in my faith that year and that God seemed more approachable than ever before.

Three years ago, I saw Fr. Joe's picture in an online news story about a priest who had molested children at a homeless center in Honduras. I was in shock. I wanted to be sure it was my Fr. Joe and once I confirmed the last name and his affiliation with UPJ, there was no denying it was him.

Apparently, Joe would help raise money in the Altoona-Johnstown diocese to help support orphaned children in Central and South America and then make a couple of trips during the year to deliver money and supplies. His trips, unfortunately, were more than missions of charity. He is currently serving a 16 year, 8 month prison sentence and will face lifetime probation upon release.

I am not alone. Many people have stories about special priests who led a secret life. I have asked myself how could Joe have done this? How could this person, who helped me during a rough time in my life, also masquerade as a child predator - this man of God? I also wonder about the weekend retreats our Newman Group took back in college. Was someone in our group molested? Is he or she walking around with emotional scars that won't ever heal?

It is a hard time to be Catholic. It is a hard time to have faith but now is when we need it most. I am writing this not because I have the answers or any new insight on this horrible story. I am writing this because personally, I, need to find a way to move forward.

 A few years ago, Fr. Joe was just a priest I knew who was sick and had a serious problem. Now, he is one of hundreds across the state. My feelings are at the surface again, but I can't push them down this time. Where does the Catholic Church go from here? God help us.