Fair Fiction

I confess. Most of what I write for the Island Guardian could be categorized as “creative non-fiction.” Every once in a while some extra creativity creeps into my writing and blurs the line between truth and fiction. This week’s column is more on the fiction side. A few years back I entered the following piece of flash fiction in the Written Word category of the San Juan County Fair. Of course none of you have read it because, let’s face it, there’s too much other stuff to do at the fair to sit around reading fiction. Although, I highly recommend taking a load off your feet at the fair and checking out this year’s Written Word entries.

Oh, and just so you understand the story better, let me tell you that Pokemon cards were a card collecting craze based on Japanese Anime characters. There used to be a Pokemon card and collectible shop next to San Juan Coffee on the waterfront.

One more thing, my son Nelson wants me to say that “The characters in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to characters living or dead is co-incidental.”

So without further ado, I present to you...

Miracle on Front Street
By Amy Wynn

I made a promise to Nelson. I had to keep it. If he spent the day helping me clean everything in the house -"floors, corners, closets, toilets, under the sofa cushion, the whole works- "he could keep all the loose change he found. In addition, if he counted the money correctly, a challenge for a soon-to-be first grader, we could take a trip to the Pokemon Shop and he could spend some of it.

Sure enough, by 3:30 that afternoon the house was spic and span clean, the money accurately counted. He had $4.20. I encouraged him to put a dollar in his piggy bank and off we went to town with the rest.

I love my hometown of Friday Harbor, but on summer Sundays when all the tourists and week-enders are trying to make it back to the mainland the place is chaotic. We hopped into the Mercury and headed to town just as a pack of moped riders were zooming down Argyle. I never quite know if they are more like a bike and it’s o.k. to pass them, or motorcycles and I need to wait for a dotted line. And it seems like mopeders turn on their left blinker when they leave Suzy’s lot and never turn it off. I never know if they’re really going to make that turn

All I knew was they were in the way. Much like the family of eight that waited until they were in the middle of the crosswalk at Spring and Argyle to discuss and decide if there really was anything worth seeing past the Little Store. I wanted to shout, “Cross the street already!!”

Right turn onto Spring. Wait. Wait. Wait. Tourist had to tie her sneaker in the middle of the road. Wait. Wait. Wait. Waiting paid off and by some miracle from Wanda the patron saint of parking, a space appeared right across from Kings. The Mercury parked, Nelson and I grabbed a few groceries and waited in line. And waited. And waited...

There was a huge line and worse yet, I didn’t know anyone in line to chat with. No one to say, “My how your son’s grown!” or “You still working at the Fitness Center?” There was no one for me to ask how their mainland trip went or how their apples are setting this year. No one. Just strangers and the friendly check-out folks were looking haggard and gave apologetic smiles. We shared the feeling of wanting to be somewhere else right then.

Sometimes, I have evil thoughts about tourists. Getting behind a line of Backroads Bicyclists swerving down West Valley Road, I have been known to mutter under my breath, “Go home!>” And that is exactly what I wanted to do right then. I wanted to go home, load the cooler in the car and go to Fourth of July Beach. There is nothing for tourists to buy there.

But I had made a promise to Nelson.

He was excited to be going to the Pokemon shop and the walk became a skip. One hand held mine, the other hand was joyfully swinging his baggie of coins. My heart felt happy for him, not that he was about to get another blasted Pokemon card, but that he had pride in his hard work and good math skills.

Then it happened.

The baggie went flying, showering coins all over the sidewalk. Pennies, nickels, and dimes rolled into the street. His happy face fell. He scrambled for the money. Trying to hold back the tears he said, “It’s o.k. mom, I’ll get it.” We picked up the money and some strangers passing by helped. A man leaped off the porch of the Doctor’s Office, latte in hand, and moved his pick-up truck so Nelson could get the change that rolled under it.

We looked around, and seeing no more stray change, we headed to the Pokemon shop. Nelson emptied the bag on the counter and counted the money. There was now $7.83 U.S., plus two Canadian Loonie coins.

Nelson chose the pack of cards of his dreams and put the change back in his baggie and carried it slowly and carefully, mindful of the chaos caused by his previous excitement. The 4:10 ferry was loading and we waited to cross Front Street. A car with B.C. plates stopped, and the driver motioned for us to cross. I recognized him as one of the strangers who helped pick up Nelson’s scattered change. He gave me a wink and a smile and I understood where the extra money came from, especially those two Loonie coins.

Heart of the County Fair

I’ve heard it said that you are not a San Juan Island local until you win a ribbon at our local County Fair. The county fair is like a debutante’s coming out party. It is your chance to show the world your hidden, secret talents. It is at the fair that you discover your local wrestling coach can bake pies, the garbage man is a poet and the meek and mild little old lady who reads to your child twice a week is also a rough and tough cattle rancher.

Entering an exhibit in the fair is a chance to display what you’ve been up to the rest of the year and take pride in your hard work and creativity. All those hours weeding the garden seem justified once you upholster the inside of your garden shed door with blue and red rosette fair ribbons.

At the fair your alibis are confirmed.

You really haven’t been to the gym in forever because you’ve been mucking out horse stalls and driving the girls to riding lessons. When the judge hands out those trophies and ribbons the community will know how committed you are to the horse barn brigade and they’ll cut you some slack for slacking in the weight room.

There’s no way you could be responsible for all those dead people’s feet washing ashore...you didn’t have time to commit murder and still finish seven queen sized quilts, three pies, two afgans, and a water color landscape painting.

Winning a ribbon at the fair usually comes with premium money, so even those lucky few who only have two jobs can now count their revenue from fair premiums as their third job. Wow! You really are a local now! Plus, if you get money for doing something, doesn’t that make you a professional? How cool is it to say you are a preofessional artist in the San Juan Islands? Enter in the right category and you can call yourself a professional hooker -get your mind out of the gutter, hookers are people who crochet.

I remember my first ribbon at the fair. That was a long, long time ago, back in the last century. It was a blue ribbon for my apple scones. The judge wrote on the scoring sheet that it was the best she had ever tasted. That really said a lot because that was the year it was judged by two local bakers who worked in a busy restaurant and hadn’t had a chance to eat before they judged.

As the story goes the judge (or maybe it was judges) was quite hungry and decided to judge the pies first. Instead of just tasting a small bite and spitting it out, they ate whole slices of the pies, skipping the spitting out part. By the time they came to judge the quick breads they were a little sick. How hard it must have been to face zucchini breads and fruitcakes after 39 slices of sweet delicious pie! As legend has it, that year every pie got a blue and those quick bread bakers saw a lot of “thank you for entering” stickers on their exhibit tags. One of the judges had to leave the country in shame over this “didn’t spit out the pie” scandal and lives in exile to this day.

Still, even on an overly full stomach of yummy pie, that judge recognized my apple scones with a blue. That year the fair was finally fun for me. When people asked if I had entered anything in the fair I could say with pride, “My apple scones got a blue ribbon.” I walked a little taller, smiled a little broader.

I’ve heard it said that you are not a San Juan Island local until you win a ribbon at our local County Fair. Well, that is complete hogwash. If you ask me, any one can knit or draw or raise a chicken. You are not a San Juan Island local until you help someone else win a ribbon at the county fair.

You don’t know the full joy of San Juan Island local life until you have a fifteen year old girl come running up to you and shouting, “Oh My Goodness! You’ll never guess how much my eggs auctioned off for! $300! $300! Thank you for helping me do my 4-H project! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

Or you have a young man watch you demonstrate weaving in the wool barn and the following year he wins a blue ribbon for his woven pot holder.

Or burnt your own county fair cookies because you were busy looking for some buttons for your neighbor to use as eyes for a scarecrow headed to the fair.

Or bought a zucchini and some rollerblades so the off-island carnival worker kid can enter the Zucchini 500.

Or entered your neighbors flowers for her because she wouldn’t be off of work in time to do it herself.

Or raved about a local chef’s home made chutney and later found a jar of it on your doorstep with a blue ribbon attached and a note thanking you for your compliments. They encouraged her to can some up and enter it in the fair.

Or spent hours supervising the bunny barn, or the sheep shed, or the poultry palace.

Or written a column for an on-line newspaper to remind folks to enter their stuff in the fair on Tuesday, August 12, 2008.

See you at the fair!

(Amy Wynn lives a block from the fairgrounds and owes her fabulous writing career to the Written Word exhibit at the San Juan County Fair. She won a blue ribbon in 2002, formed a writer’s circle with that year’s red ribbon winner and was encouraged by the megaphone man of the San Juan County Fair Zucchini 500 fame to write a letter to the editor of the Island Guardian. She missed this year’s written word deadline.)

Just Insert Foot

I knew I shouldn’t have said it. The words slipped out and there was no way to get them back in.

How could I have been so insensitive?

Other people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I was born with my foot in my mouth.

I hope the guy forgives me.

It was a Friday afternoon. I was working my shift at the Big Store. I rang him up. Handed him his change. Told him thank you. Then I said it.

I said, “Have a great weekend!”

He got that depressed look on his face. His shoulders hunched over. “It’s just my Monday.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “it’s my Thursday at this job, my Friday for my life guarding gig and my Saturday night for my cleaning job. I don’t have a single all day Saturday because when it is my Big Store Saturday it is my Fitness Center Monday and my Big Store Sunday is my Fitness Center Tuesday.”

“At least I get an all day Sunday, even though it is on Thursday.” He added, feeling a little thankful for the day of rest. Then he added, “ My Saturday which is on Wednesday I do some landscaping for a wealthy lady on the west side.”

I started ringing up the next guy in line. “It’s my Saturday at my construction job. We work four ten hour days in the summer and then I try to do some side jobs on the weekend, so it’s kind of my Monday, too.”

The next customer asked, “Are you out of those 4 packs of Red Bull energy drinks?”

“ Sold out, but you can buy the singles.”

“Damn. Tomorrow’s my double day. I flip eggs from 7 to whenever and then if I’m lucky I get some time off to catch an hour of my tivo’d soap opera and then I stuff burritos until 9 or 10. Sunday’s my Sunday unless my wife’s around with the honey-do list, then it’s Monday all over again.”

Many folks I know work a couple of jobs. You’re likely to see your son’s teacher waiting tables in the summer, your realtor tending bar, your early morning barista will be hostessing the supper rush at the restaurant up the street. At 5:00 pm the store owner closes up shop and hops into the taxi to pull an evening shift driving cab. The painter works dispatch at the County for the health insurance. The construction worker chops and sells firewood on the weekend to pay his property taxes.

A friend of mine was at a party. An older gentleman guest asked her, “Are you a three home islander or a three job islander?” My friend was a three job islander working the party as the caterer. The next day she’d wake up early to teach yoga class and then do the accounting for her husband’s business. The older gentleman who asked the question was clearly a three home islander.

I am amazed at how well this island does with such a gap between the working class and their affluent neighbors and visiting tourists. The wealthy retirees often fund social programs, chair the non-profits, volunteer everywhere. Their cast-offs make our local thrift stores shopping heaven.

Everyone knows we probably wouldn’t be able to have the number of local amenities without the seasonal influx of tourist dollars. The local café can stay open and operate at a loss during the winter because of the tourist boom of business in the summer. There is interdependence because the affluent locals and the visiting tourists need services; the working poor need jobs.

The major problem I see is that, well, no one seems to be making it to the beach as much as they should. I love tourists, I do. I love our wealthy retiree seasonal islanders. But sometimes I just get so jealous of their leisure time that I struggle to be patient and pleasant. I’m not the only one. Every year the visitor professionals will get complaints about bad service and the lousy attitudes of some service workers. I know that for the most part islanders are a very friendly lot. They are, however, only humans.

It’s just that when you are tired and over-loaded from dealing with people in two or three jobs, it can be a struggle to paint on that smile and answer the same question for the zillionth time:

“Ranch, blue cheese, Italian, thousand island, French, honey mustard, and raspberry vinagerette”

“Take Argyle to Spring, make a right, take your first left onto second, I think it turns into Guard Street. You’ll go past the courthouse, the community theatre, the highschool, then at the second stop sign take a right onto tucker and it turns into Roche Harbor Road. Just follow that. If you end up going by our library you missed the turn.”

“The liquor store is by the bowling alley.”

“We don’t carry that, try Radio Shack across the street.

“I don’t know if the whales are out today I’ve been stuck in (Bleep)ing town waiting on all you (bleeeeep) and haven’t had a chance to see salt water or seashore in a blue (bleeping) moon. How in the (bleep) would I know if the (bleeeeeeping) whales are out. What do you think I have some (bleeping) whale sonar up my (Bleeping) nose?”

They’ve tried putting on seminars on how to deliver good customer service, but I’m told that the people who need to work on customer service don’t attend those seminars. I know that people know how to be kind and polite and gracious. Maybe just not on little sleep and tired feet. I think that instead of how-to seminars they should give employees days off with pay during the busy season, or massages, or spa days, or fishing trips, or some mandatory free time at the beach.

That’s it. I think that we should add an eighth day to the week and call it beach day and none of us are allowed to work or volunteer or do side jobs. Maybe it would be the one day I could put my foot in the sand and not in my mouth!

(Amy Wynn works too much. She has a dead VW van, a messy house, a mountain of laundry, an overgrown lawn, a sink full of dishes and she is grateful for it all. Like many other 3 job folks, she also does some volunteer work in all the free time she has. Her wildest fantasies involve eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.)

Tell-Tale License Plate Holder

Let’s face it. We throw money at a Visitor’s Bureau and charge them with being the meeters and greeters and island information clearinghouse welcome people. Still, its hard to find the official visitor’s bureau and even harder to find a place to park near the visitor’s bureau. So tourists come and ask me all those wonderful questions. I am a cashier at a local convenience store. I don’t mind giving short, sweet pleasant answers.

“The whales go by at 2 and 7 pm.”
“Yes, the island is totally submerged in the winter and rebuilt every spring.”
“The Mc Donald’s is right next to the Safeway. Just cross the railroad tracks and over the bridge.”

I’m just joking, folks. I try to be friendly and factual. I first came to the island as a tourist nineteen years ago and I still have empathy for people on vacation and those who have just moved to the island. I love to show off my local knowledge with secret islanders-only facts.

For instance I always tell visitors the real names of the beaches. Jackson’s beach is “Dog Poop Beach” because so many town folks take their dogs there to run and poop and your odds of stepping in, digging up or smelling dog poop is quite high. Fourth of July is known as “Nearly Naked Fat Lady Beach”. If you go left from the main trail, past the big rock outcropping you are bound to find a hefty woman in bra and panties catching some rays because we all know that tan fat looks better than white fat. Eagle Cove is called by locals “Cold Evil Jellyfish-Infested-No-Fun Beach” because, well, we don’t want to share it with the tourists.

The other day I had a gentleman stop for gas and ask where he could get one of those license plate holders that says San Juan Island on it. I said he should try the drugstore or the souvenir shop by the ferry landing. Then he said that he was in the process of moving from California and was keeping his California tags but wanted the San Juan Island license plate holder.

“You don’t want to do that.” I told him. “Nothing says you’re not an islander like a San Juan Island License plate holder.”

He looked at me like I was lying to him. Like I wanted to deny him the one key to our fair island life: the license plate holder.

He just didn’t get how cliché the San Juan Island license plate holder is on the California plated luxury SUV.

I got to thinking, what could this gentleman do to fit in on the island.

Here’s the advice I would give him.

1) Go ahead and get rid the California license plates. Be a good sport and pay your road taxes here.

2) Ditch the black Mercedes SUV. It shows the dust of our country roads and eventually you will get tired of hearing “Will the owner of the black mercedes SUV please return to the car deck to turn off your car alarm. Trust us you don’t have to worry about anyone stealing your car on the ferry.”

3) Buy an ugly old pick-up truck. Nothing makes friends faster than an ugly old pick up truck. Other folks will see it and be reminded of a truck from their childhood. Sharing nostalgic memories in the parking lot of the grocery store is a good way to meet folks. So is loaning an old truck to your neighbor so they can haul a load of firewood or horse shit.

4) Get a dog to drive around with you in your old truck. People worship dogs here. With a dog you are one of God’s, or maybe Dog’s, chosen few.

5) If you insist on having a San Juan Island license plate holder do not buy one from a souvenir shop. Instead see if you can buy a license plate holder that says “M & W Auto, San Juan Island.” It makes you look like you actually bought your truck on the island and only islanders buy their cars on the island. Make sure you drop Wendy’s name in polite conversation and mention what a good deal she gave you.

6) Get a bumper sticker for each of the county sheriff candidates and after the election put the sticker of the winner on your vehicle.

7) Get a bumper sticker that has a deep thought, yet is sort of vague and non-offensive. My favorites are “Jesus is coming, look busy” (non-offensive to the Christians, yet a call for action) and “remember who you wanted to be” (more polite than saying get a real life.)

8) Learn to stop for people in the cross walk. You can huff and puff and sigh while you wait, but you must wait. Just because you can run over people in other states, that doesn’t mean you can in Washington.

9) Put something sporty on your vehicle like a couple of kayaks, a roof rack for skis or a cord of firewood.

10) A dent or ding makes a nice island car accessory, especially if you have a good story to go with it. Pristine cars are blasé’ on the island. You want a car with a fender dent from a wild winter storm ferry ride or a cracked windshield from bad chip seal or a banged up hood from an encounter with Bambi.

11) Never honk your horn in anger. Never slow down to look at the camel.

12) If you have a white Subaru you must put something on it -"like an antenna topper or fuzzy dice from the rear view mirror-- to distinguish it as YOUR white Subaru unless you want to come out of the hardware store to find some old lady sitting in your car trying to start it with her key!

Welcome to the island all you California newbies! Sit back and enjoy your wild island ride!

(Amy Wynn’s island car is a Specialized bicycle. She believes that an islander is, by definition, someone who lives on a piece of land surrounded by water and has either given away a car for free or has been the recipient of a free car. She’s done both.)

Campaigning

My son had to memorize a portion of the Declaration of Independence for his eighth grade humanities class. While he was wandering around the house reciting it to himself over and over I was reminded of this brilliant feature of our nation. Every four years we get the opportunity to peacefully overthrow our government. Wow!

Well, peaceful is not exactly how the primary campaigns are going and I’m sure the 2008 campaigns for president will be anything but peaceful. After the Republican and Democratic conventions the real mud-slinging will begin. That is a shame.

If I were to run for president, my campaign would be a little different.

First of all, I would have the “look” of my campaign to be more on the line of the San Juan County Fair Trashion Fashion show. I wouldn’t want everyone in matching Made in China red white and blue t-shirts that said “Amy for President.” No. I would tell people to re-fashion something they already owned or got at a thrift shop. Imagine, bright orange t-shirts with “I’m voting for the carrot top” written in black sharpie marker or a tie-dyed shirt with a hand-made appliqué that said “We all Win with Wynn.”

Sure, it might hurt the t-shirt industry, but what a boom for fabric paint manufacturers and Goodwill stores. Think of how vibrant my supporters would look--a rainbow of t-shirts symbolic of the rainbow of people who make up our nation.

Secondly, I wouldn’t do yard signs or placards. Instead, I’d ask my supporters to plant something like a tree or bush or windowsill tomato plant and put a small florist card sign that said “I’m going and growing with Wynn.” Yard signs eventually get weathered, worn and tacky. They end up in landfills. What a waste! Plants provide oxygen and loveliness. And who couldn’t use a little more of each. I’d ask that all banners be hand-made, preferably from recycled bed sheets and done by young children.

Thirdly, I would let the people know that I am in politics because I genuinely want to help people. I believe that most Americans want to help their fellow man. So instead of having volunteers stuffed away at phone banks calling to get out the vote or hitting the streets knocking on doors. I’d ask my supporters to really help the nation by reading to the blind and young children, picking up litter, serving food at homeless shelters, building trails in our parks.

I’d want the energy that goes into my campaign to have a positive impact whether or not I win. Do you want to contribute funds to my campaign? Don’t. Instead give money to the United Way, the Red Cross, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, any good service organization around. Let them know it is in honor of your support for my candidacy.

Another aspect of my campaign would be brutal honesty. I’d air all my own dirty laundry. Everything. That it took me seven years to get through college because of a lingering incomplete, the failed first marriage, my addiction to peanut butter m & m’s, my tendency to drool in my sleep, I have bad hair days. Everything.

So many people want their politicians to be perfect that many good leaders are discouraged from public service because of the intense public scrutiny. I’d say, bring it on. I’m human. I’ve messed up a time or two. I have learned from my mistakes. Then, I’d try to live the most virtuous life in the present: no $30,000 escorts, no expensive gifts from lobbyists, I’d lay off the wine.

Finally, I would not accept defeat or victory until every vote was counted. I wouldn’t let Fox News polls tell me I won or lost. I often feel jipped living in the Pacific Northwest when the national media declares winners before our local polling places have closed. I want my vote to count and be counted. I want to know that I was part of that peaceful revolution we call a national election.

Election Day

I miss elections. I miss real live, hunt for a parking space, stand in line at the school gym, go behind the curtain, have candidates to choose between, get a little “I voted” sticker when you are done, elections.

I miss the buzz around town on election day.

“Did you remember to vote, honey?” has morphed into, “Honey, do you know where I put my ballot?”

It seems like once I actually find my ballot the universe is conspiring against me.

The five hundred black pens I bought at the Drug Store back-to-school sale are all in hiding. I wonder, can I use the purple ink pen that I actually manage to find? I re-read the instructions that are written in a font that seems so much smaller than in my pre-forty-something days. It says “Please use black or blue pen.” I wonder, will the computer read ballots marked in purple pen? It’s sort of dark like blue and black. The ballot didn’t say, “Don’t use purple.” So maybe the purple pen will work. I am not a risk taker. I search the what-not drawer and find the innards of an old ball point pen. An old black ballpoint pen. The skinny bendy-ness of the pen is awkward, but a small inconvenience for the continuation of democracy.

Ballot found, pen in hand, I am ready to vote. The phone rings. I answer it. It is Michael with the thick Indian accent wanting to know if I am interested in free dish satellite blah-blah-blah. I politely tell him no. I hang up the phone. It rings again. It is Charlotte with the thick Asian accent who wants to know when she can schedule my husband and I for our two hour tour of some condos so we can receive our complimentary two night stay in Las Vegas. I politely tell her no.

I return to the kitchen table. Guess what! The phone rings. Scott, with the amazing Minnesota accent, wants to give me a free $500 gift card for completing a crap-matic sleep study. $500. Tempting. He assures me he doesn’t want to sell me anything. I bite. I can actually understand what he is saying. I’m a sucker for Midwest accents. He says he’ll only take 5 minutes of my time. I tell him I’m setting my kitchen timer. He asks me a few questions. Two minutes left, I’m thinking, “this is easy money.” Then he wants to schedule a time when their sleep expert can come over to our house and show us a thirty minute video on how to take the sleep study. It sounds like it is going to be a thirty minute crap-matic bed commercial in my own home. He transfers me to the scheduling person. I hang up. I take the phone off the hook.

Back to the official ballot. I read the first initiative. “What’s this really about?” It dawns on me: didn’t they mail me a voters pamphlet a few weeks back? Another scavenger hunt. Fun. Twenty minutes into it I abandon the search.

I call a friend, “Do you happen to have your voters guide?”
“Sorry, I recycled mine right after I voted the first day I got my ballot.”
Organized people. I wonder if she can still be my friend.
Then she adds, “I’m glad you called. The ballot has been sitting on my kitchen counter for weeks waiting for me to get a stamp put on it and into the mailbox.”

Friendship preserved.

I zip around cyberspace and find what I think I need to know to make good decisions on the initiatives and amendments and referendums. Only occasionally distracted by computer pop-ups for video rentals by mail, and weight loss supplements.

I flip the ballot. There is only one contested race. This should be fast and easy. My mind is distracted. (Do you sense a theme here?) Why aren’t there more contested races? Is it that islanders are too polite to run against each other? Is it that if they run against someone and lose, well, they’re a loser. If they win, they have to face the loser in the grocery store. Are they afraid of controversial, dirty laundry, mud-slinging races? Is it that there are too many positions for too few people. Are islanders too busy with second jobs and volunteer commitments to become elected public servants?

I guess it really doesn’t matter. Still, I feel the need to write in a few names. How can I vote for the person running unopposed who sent me a postcard requesting my vote for this person. Running unopposed, this person surely has got the job, why waste that money. She’ll probably waste more of my money once she is in office. Local school teacher who gave my son detention for forgetting to get his journal, or slick lobbyist who probably won’t be around much. Hmm.... I’ll go back to that one.

I write in a few names for the school board director positions... the names of parents who complain a lot. Before I know it I’m almost finished and back to the one contested race. “Eenie, meanie, minie moe. Catch a candidate buy the toe...”

No, I’m just joking. I rationally chose the best person for the job, holding no grudges for giving lunchroom detentions during an election year, (a sign of character I’m sure) and bearing no snap judgments about lawyers and lobbyists (someone has to do those jobs).

I fold my ballot, sign on the dotted line. I have done my civic duty. Well, almost. Now where did I put those stamps?

Hallowynn!

As a kid, Halloween was always a special holiday for me. I liked Halloween because it was the one holiday that my out-of-town cousins stayed away and I didn’t have to compete for attention. I loved the school parties with the draped orange and black crepe paper decorations, the apple-bobbing, pumpkin carving, cider and cupcakes. And of course I loved dressing up and being a different persona for a day. I loved the freedom of running through our neighborhood at night holding on to my plastic pumpkin-head flashlight, knocking on doors, getting candy. Yes, it was the pillow case full of candy at the end of the night that made it so magical...that and staying home from school the next day with a tummy ache, watching game shows and nursing a candy corn, Milk Dud, Hershey bar hangover. Ahh, I loved Halloween.

Luckily, I married a man who also has a great love of Halloween. He’s also witty, creative and though he plays the holiday curmudgeon up until October 30th, he has created some amazing Halloween memories. I should probably tell you up front that we live in THE trick-or-treat neighborhood. As much as the folks in our subdivision complain about how much we spend on candy each year, many of us encourage the hordes of costumed kids with elaborate Halloween displays, trying to out-do the neighbors.

Ten years ago, our first Halloween in the new house on Rose Lane, our approach was subdued. Some little orange twinkle lights. My husband greeted kids at the door wearing his chef’s jacket and hat, holding a giant ladle.

“Trick or treat!” the children would say as my husband opened the door.

“Would you like some soup?” He’d ask.

The children looked confused. This guy wasn’t following the script. He was supposed to pass out candy, not soup.

“Do you want some soup?” He’d ask again.

“No.” the kids would shake their heads.

“Come on, open your bag and let me give you some soup. Special Halloween soup.”

The trick-or-treat bags stayed close. You could tell the kids had horrible, scary visions of their loot of candy being spoiled by chicken noodle, or worse...creamy, nasty tomato soup!

When my husband had his fill of teasing the children, he’d scoop up a ladle of candy from the big black kettle by the front door and grin as the bags opened and were then thrust his way. He sure put the trick in trick-or-treat!

The next couple of years my Halloween husband had to work and I tried to man the house and two very young children myself. It was horrible. Everytime I opened the door my pre-school aged sons would want to run out and go for more treats. I got tired of the up and down, the herding of my own kids back inside the house. Shouts of “trick-or-treat!” or “Happy Halloween!” were few and far between. Few kids said “Thank you.” This was my dark period of Halloween cynacism. Our porch is small and I feared someone getting pushed off the steps. Then I had an idea. What if we had a drive through window for treats? I found a seven foot piece of unused irrigation pipe in the garage and “The Tube of Doom” was born.

My husband ran with the idea. He set up a sound system, suspended the tube through our front window.

“Step up to the Tube of Doom.”

“Put your bag under the Tube of Doom.”

Then you could hear the sliding of candy against corrugated plastic followed by a little “Plop!” as the candy went into their bags.

“Happy Halloween!!” My husband bellowed through the sound system.

“I love you Tube of Doom.” Replied one little princess girl.

The Tube of Doom was a hit.

We did the Tube of Doom for a couple of years, then a gruesome mad scientist display. The next year we followed with the “Hatchback from Notre Dame.” We decorated the Subaru and passed out candy from the spookily decorated dead car sitting in our drive way. Then it was Tube of Doom again for a year.

In 2004 we made a medieval dungeon in the drive way and I was the Queen of Halloween. I really enjoyed making the kids bow down and kiss my plastic monster feet before they could get their treats. The following year we were remodeling and had body parts sticking out of the dumspter in our drive way and a lovely window display of Mr. & Mrs. Dracula in wing-back chairs in our living room. Last year we went back to the ever-popular “Tube of Doom.”

And this year...well, you’ll just have to drop by and check us out. If you do, I’d like to give you some Halloween etiquette tips.

1) Dress up. Creative costumes make it fun for those passing out candy.

2) I mean that, really dress up. I turn in to a candy tight-wad when I open the door to find six teenagers in their school clothes with their hands out. That is begging. Begging doesn’t look good. Be into Halloween, or stay home.

3) When your young child looks cold, tired or overwhelmed, just go home. Don’t pimp out your child for tootsie rolls and lollipops. If their pooped, take them home. You don’t have to do every house.

4) No scaring the little kids...unless you’re giving them candy.

5) No pushing the little kids. No cuts. No holding places in line, and no scalping tickets.

6) Make sure the kids are visiblie. Black is a common Halloween color, and glow sticks and reflective tape make lovely accessories.

7) Trick or Treating is not Little League. Parents, it is nice if kids say “Trick-or-Treat” and “Thank You.” But don’t stress out about it. If the kids smile as I put a treat in their bag, I’m happier than if I hear a parent shout from the road, “Did you say “thank you, James? Make sure you say Thank you, “ followed by a shameful look from the child and a weak, “thank you.” Parents, keep Halloween stress free and lay off the pressure. Kids, just say thank you so I don’t have to hear your parents nag you from the street to say “thank you.”

8) Do not politicize Halloween. I just spent $75 on candy. Keep your pamphlet about how cocoa farms exploit children to yourself. If you really think Hershey’s chocolate is evil, then give me fifty pounds of shade grown, organic, fair trade chocolate to pass out or call me a month ahead of time with alternatives, otherwise I’m passing out the candy the drugstore has on sale. Deal with it. Save the guilt for another holiday. (By the way, I’m passing out licorice this year so I can be guilt free and cheap at the same time.)

9) Do not demonize Halloween. Keep your religious tract at home. I know Jesus died for my sins and was raised from the dead, so why the stress about my kid dressing like someone who came back from the dead? What would Jesus do? He’d probably pass out candy to strangers knocking at his door. I don’t think I’m going to Hell because I put on a rubber mask and yell, “Boo!” Besides, I have felt closest to God in some very spooky haunted houses...reciting, “The Lord he is the light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?” Maybe I feared the guy in the hockey mask wielding a chainsaw. “Oh, God, help me make it out of here alive!” Think of it, Halloween can actually be prayer producing!

10) No slutty Halloween costumes. . What is up with that? It’s Halloween, not an MTV video shot at the Playboy Mansion. Cross-dressing is, however, o.k. (as long as it’s not too slutty.)

11) Adults, do you really need the candy? Many houses in our neighborhood will run out of candy. Parents, resist the urge to collect a bag for yourself--save it for the kids.

12) Parents, go through your child’s bag at the end of the night. Now is the time for you to get the candy. “Why, Annie, this Snickers bar looks very suspicious. You better let me try it to make sure it’s safe to eat.”

13) If you use a sound system to play scary music and communicate to the trick-or-treaters outside, make sure you turn it off at the end of the night. No need to broadcast your post-Halloween gossip sessions to the world.

14) When is a child too old to trick-or-treat? That is a toughie. I don’t mind passing out candy to teenagers in costume. Your football jersey is NOT a costume. (See tips 1 and 2)

15) No silly string spraying, window-soaping, shave-creaming, spray-painting, egg-tossing, pumpkin-smashing, or wrapper littering. I know, I’m uptight, but Halloween is about the candy and the costumes, people. (See tips 1 and 2)

16) And last but not least, HAVE FUN! DRESS UP!

Happy Halloween, folks!

(Amy Jule Wynn’s name means “Beloved Christmas.” She was born six days before Halloween [hint, hint]. She is humbly accepting donations of shade-grown, fair trade, organic chocolates and candy treats in Bible verse wrappers. Don’t even think of calling her pumpkin head.)

Summer?

Did I blink and miss summer? Were those really “Back to School” sale ads in my Sunday paper? Was the neighbor girl really headed towards volleyball practice? It is enough to make me want to shout, “Stop it! Give us back our summer!”

It is bad enough that our school district panders to the wealthy ski bunnies and has that horrid mid-winter February break that pushes our school year into the third week of June. Add to that sports practices that begin the end of July. Each year it seems like summer is shrinking. I fear that by the time my sons are in high school, summer break will be reduced to a three day, Fourth of July weekend.

Meanwhile, on the Fifth of July the flip-flops are sent to back-stock and they roll out the crayons and pencils, paper and glue sticks. The media mass-marketers start shoving school sales down our throats. Thank God we don’t have tv to see the commercials to match the print ads offereing notebook paper for 29 cents and furnish your dorm room for $200. Don’t forget the mini-fridge and matching bedding. And school shoes. You have to have new school shoes. Be prepared for school. And once you’ve bought your locker organizer and new notebooks, they’ll be rolling out the Halloween candy on Labor Day, get your Turkey on Columbus day.. Haven’t you got your Christmas shopping started? It makes me crazy.

It seems the focus on living the moment has been displaced with planning for the moment you will miss because you are preparing for another moment.

Friends, I have a solution. Go to the beach. Go directly to the beach. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 –or the Sunday ads! Sure there will be tourists there. But maybe for a few hours you can be one, too. Daylights burning!

(Amy Wynn lives the hamster wheel of two-job island life and dreams of spending a summer at camp.)