Heading out…

Well all, tomorrow’s the big day. I’ll be leaving with Short Stack for a while in the hopes of seeing the Shuttle launch on Monday at 6:22 AM.

Wish me luck with the airports, the rental cars, the hotel and keeping a four year old up all night long for three minutes worth of, “Wow!” Here’s hoping!

Naturally, I’ll be writing more later. Hopefully, I’ll even get a chance while I’m there. That’s assuming that I don’t fall asleep too while he’s napping.


Decoding the Downchucks and White Smiles

Children do not see things like we do. The world is being viewed through eyes that have not seen how a lot of thing work and because they don’t expect certain outcomes form certain events, their wide eyed interest in any given event is honest and open minded. If cars started growing wings and flying around, your average three year old would just roll with it. As far as they know, that sort of thing might happen every day. So what? They might be excited, but they wouldn’t have the mental logic hemorrhage that any adult would experience.

This same, “I guess that’s supposed to happen” view of the world also allows kids to implement their own limited experiences and logic on any given situation. Two of these leaps of logic come to mind from my own childhood. I don’t remember them myself, but the stories have been retold by my parents enough times so that they have become family folklore.

The first involved the clothes dryer. I was a very talkative child and used to enjoy following my Mom and Dad around the house, talking to them until their ears tried to flee their heads and hide in their armpits. On one of these days, I happened to be sitting on the cellar stairs, chatting my Mom down to a nub as she did the laundry. As she transferred the clothes from the washer to the dryer, I reportedly reminded her to check for filt.

“Filt? What’s filt?”, she managed to get in edgewise.
“You know? The filt. You have to get it out before you start the dryer.” I happily burbled.

What I was getting at was that she needed to clean out the filter on the dryer before she left. To a kid’s mind, it made perfect sense. Well, to mine it did, anyway. If that was the filter, what else could it be that was collected? It had to be filt! To a young mind, it only makes sense. To an adult, it’s like a code that needs breaking before you can tell what on earth your child is talking about.


The second kid-encryption that I know of from my own past, was the downchucks. Downchucks scared the hell out of me. This one stumped my folks for a long, long time. I was just old enough to say a word of my own invention clearly enough for others to understand it, but not old enough to explain what they were. All they knew was that the downchucks were in their bed room versus mine and that they worried me enough to keep me out of the place if it was dark or if one of my parents wasn’t with me the whole time.

Normally, this level of kid decoding requires a parent with a lot of personal understanding of what their child tends to see and imagine. In this particular case however, it was my aunt Janet who worked it out. From time to time, she watched me while my folks were out and one day while reading me a book, one line jumped out at her.

“Down, jumped the woodchuck, into his burrow.”

Then it dawned on her.

“Burrow”… “Bureau!”

She asked me if the downchucks were on my parent’s bureau. I replied that, yes, they were. She walked into my folks room and looked that the bureau. Specifically, she looked at the drawer pulls. This being the nineteen seventies in America, everything was required to have a colonial American theme to it. It was the ubiquitous style of the era. The plates on the face of the drawer pulls were American eagles. Not too intimidating… until you looked at the negative space and not the eagle. OH MY! If you ignored the eagle, the dark wood showing through the cut outs under the wings looked like very mean and scary eyes. The dressers in my parent’s room looked like two totem polls of nasty and malevolent gremlins! Those were the downchucks!

Short Stack has naturally come up with a few of his own zingers in his time and I’m sure we’ll be in for plenty more as time goes along. Most seem to come from his ability to “almost” get a long and tough word. He’ll make an admirable stab at it and then, right or wrong, go with it. We’ve figured out some while others have to simply be filed away for decrypting at a later date.

“Henra-ta-denra” was one of the more recent cracks that, having worked out on my own, I’m particularly proud of. He had been saying this for some time now and we always just shrugged our shoulders and smiled. Then, a few weeks ago, I looked in on Short Stack as he happily watched a kid show we have on the computer. In the video, a magician waves his magic wand and says, “Abracadabra!” Short Stack, big smile plastered across his chubby cheeks, immediately retorted, “Henratadenra!” I called Acton Girl right away when I finally had that code cracked!

The one that still has us stumped is “Viveeder”. Apparently, it has something to do with cars and trucks, but what it is exactly, we have no clue. Short Stack will point to some random vehicle and tell us emphatically, “This is a viveeder! It can viveed!”


The one that I worked out tonight was more on par with the downchucks than simply getting a word mixed up.

I had put Short Stack in bed and after the required three books had been read, I tucked him in, turned off the light, turned on the night light, gave him his kisses and headed down stairs. A few minutes later, I thought I heard whimpering. I walked to the foot of the stairs and was proven right. Something was wrong. I headed up and immediately got a big, worried hug as soon as I was safely within launching range of the bed. Then, the explanation.

“It’s a big, white smile! Who’s dat big, white smile? He has no legs and he’s peeking at me!”

This is the sort of thing that as a parent, you need to solve and solve fast. I looked around the room and could see nothing that looked even remotely like a “big, white, legless smile”. Hmmm. As soon as Short Stack was calm and sure that he was safe, I asked him to show me where the smile was. I picked him up and with him clinging to me like a baby monkey; we walked to the open doorway to his room. He thrust his round finger out accusingly at the wall.

“Dare it is. Dat’s the big, white smile!”

He clung on even harder. I still didn’t see it, but I had the idea. Taking him back to his little toddler sized bed, I lay down next to him. As I looked at the open door way, I tried to see things like my son did. I defocused and I looked at the doorway in front of me… and then I saw it. The big, white smile.

Well, to be honest, it was hard to see it as he described it, but to be fair, he was using the only words he had access to. What it turned out to be was a pool of light being thrown on the stairway wall by his night light. In the middle of the pool, was a series of knots in the wood planking that covers that section of wall. If looked at from his pillow, it looked kind of like a goofy smile. To him, it was like being watched while he was alone in his room. I understood immediately from my own childhood experiences with drawer pulls. Some time spent explaining what he was seeing on the wall and a quick relocation of the nightlight fixed the problem. The “big, white smile” was gone from view and he felt as though things were safe enough to fall asleep.

I don’t know if I can always decode the fears of my children on the fly like that, but I’ll sure as heck try. There’s a lot that catches you unaware when you’re a small child. The experiences of life have yet to come down your road and the things that are safe versus the things that are not, are easily confused. While my children are with me, I will do what I can to call them as I see them, and if I’m very lucky, I might even learn a few things from them as well.

I just wish he’d tell me what the heck a “viveeder” is.

Everyone, Hail to the Pumpkin King!

It’s coming

The trees are starting to talk with their dried out and rustling leaves. The dry air is clear and crisp giving an unfettered view of the fat moon that hangs over my house, giving off enough light to cast shadows on the porch or even read by. I’m getting excited. My favorite day is coming and the anticipation alone makes me smile while I rub my hands together.

All Hallows Eve

Halloween is, in my humble opinion, the very, very, VERY best holiday that there is. It is perfection as far as yearly celebrations go. Think about it. It involves candy, scaring the hell out of kids, fiendish decorations and relatively few family entanglements. It is easily the most egocentric holiday out there and you are allowed, nay, REQUIRED to eat an indecent quantity of mini 3 Musketeers bars.

I grew up in a house that sat on the corner of a dead end street. This little road jutted like a finger into the woodlands behind my house. If you had walked down the street and then, once it ended, had continued on, eventually you’d hit Vermont, It was a long way and deep, uninhabited woodland. In short, it was heaven for all the kids who grew up there. We lived in those woods and new much of them by heart.

Halloween was always a big deal and the woods often became a major player in the antics of the evening. At the time of my youth, the dead end street was packed with young families and we all pretty much knew each other. Inevitably, some kid or group of kids would decide that they would make a ghost tour in the woods and invite passing trick or treaters to try their luck and survivability by walking into the jaws of the set trap.

We went for it every time. How could we not!?

The path through the “haunted” woods was often marked with either ropes or old bed sheets hung from lines. There was a guide to make sure that you didn’t miss something that made you scream like a little girl and usually four or five others laying in wait for you as you stumbled over the exposed tree roots, groping in the darkness. Ripe for the spooky picking. It was always a blast and injuries were usually limited to ankles and egos.

The bottom line; it was SCARY!

It was the house down the end of the street that played the spooky music that made you pause and rethink how much you really wanted that Mars Bar. It was the guy who always dressed up as something vampireish or vaguely Frankinstiny and would whip open the door at a hundred miles an hour and scare the beejeebees out of you. It was the scarecrow in the chair next to the front door that you knew, you JUST KNEW, was actually a person but you managed to get up the nerve to and poke it with a stick only to have him jump up and send you screaming down the path and back to the road, clutching your loot bag to your chest. That is what Halloween is all about. Well, what it used to be about, anyway.

Now days, we have become obsessed with making our world as safe as possible and as laudable a goal as that is, we’ve siphoned a lot of the fun out of it in the process. Halloween has lost its punch.

Call me old fashioned, and I suppose that’s true, but I liked the old Halloween. It was dark and spooky and you felt like the whole world had become a haunted house. This brings us to our neighbors. Where we live is right next door to two of the best Halloween lovers I know. They are both commercial artist and having no kids of their own, make up for it by essentially being giant kids in their own right. Every year, a small team of friends descends on their modest house and transforms it into something… awesome.

The criterion for the theme is that it needs to be something that they feel is creepy or disturbing. That can be almost anything. The first year we saw their handiwork, they had turned their front porch into a monkey house, complete with tire swing, banana peals and four or five volunteers in monkey costumes. If you got too close, they would fling candy at you.

The next year it was the “Night Clinic”. No one likes going to the hospital, right? Theirs sported a creepy looking nurse at the check in counter, sounds of screaming from behind closed doors, bloody medical implements, a head in a jar and the “waiting room” on the front lawn, seeded with volunteers sporting interesting and unlikely maladies.

Following that was the year of the truly repulsive Good Humor Truck. They actually rented a real one for this and “redecorated” with lovely items like the “poop pop” the “Beefsicle” and the “Clam Cake”.

Next year was the Hillbilly town of “Weenholler” complete with seriously sketchy inhabitants, coached by a good friend who happens to be a native of the back hills of Tennessee.

Last year, it was the bad 1960’s Caveman movie genre with an odd night club setting, thrown in for good measure. That last one was more bizarre that scary, but the execution was amazing.

When compared to the little fake cemetery and spooky music that take over my front yard for the night, well… there just is no comparison. That’s not to say that we don’t get Trick or Treaters. Living just one house away from a draw like that insures that I’ll burn through at least thirty bucks worth of waxy American milk chocolate in about a half an hour. Once the candy is gone, we’ll turn off the porch light and the spooky music. We’ll bundle up the kids and wander over to the neighbor’s house and see what we can do to help. The party will still be rocking there and the screams won’t be silenced for at least an hour more. It’ll be great!

Short Stack is just old enough this year where he might get scared a bit but Lulu Belle will be blissfully ignorant. At least we don’t have to walk through a haunted wood to get there.

Darn it.

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