Had the last couple of days off. My oldest is home for spring break and I wanted to be home so I could hang out with her. It’s not like I had two days of fun and exciting activities planned or anything, but I was at least here and not at work. Thursday she went with me and got groceries after I’d spent the morning cleaning the house(I know, exciting.) Before we went back home we stopped at the Light Rail Cafe in Winona Lake for a shot of afternoon caffeine and a fresh-baked good(I had a cheddar ‘n chive scone, and she had a cookie.) It may not have been the mall or some cozy old bookstore, but it wasn’t bad.
Yesterday was a trip to Manchester University for a preview day. We’ve been on the hunt for a college that’ll be a good fit for her since last May. She’s visited Indiana University, Purdue University, Depauw University, Ball State University, and now Manchester. Up to yesterday she had whittled the list down to Depauw and Manchester. She was accepted by all the above, but Indiana, Purdue, and Ball State were just too big. You’re a number with dollar signs all over you at those schools. Great schools, but they don’t need to wow you with scholarship money to get people to apply, so they’re not. Since my wife and I aren’t independently wealthy and have two more kids that will be going to college in the next 5 years, money does matter. My daughter(as will all our kids) will be paying for a good portion of their education through scholarships, grants, and financial aid. We will help, but I’m not going into hock paying for university. We’ll still have a dog at home that needs money for treats and squeaky foxes. He can’t go without.
Anyways, after our trip yesterday I do believe Depauw will be her pick. She loved Depauw when she visited. She was there just last weekend for an interview to get into their Media Fellows program. She said that the campus just felt like home to her. It’s small, but not too small. The’re geared towards academics and not athletics. Plus they offer Russian, which she’s been taking the last two years. I think it’s a right fit for her. They’re also offering her a very large sum in the form of scholarship money to come to their school. It’s a very expensive place to go to school, but being a private college they have lots of money to offer to students if they really want them to attend school there. They must really want our daughter, that’s all I’ll say.
So she may not have been wowed by Manchester, but her eyes were definitely opened to how much she really liked Depauw.
After the preview day we made our way east and hit Half Price Books in Fort Wayne. Wasn’t planning on buying anything but I couldn’t pass up Yaz’ Upstairs at Eric’s for $3 and a brand new copy of Built to Spill’s Ancient Melodies of the Future for $15. Bought my daughter a couple books and then we were on our way home.
I’m still trying to comprehend where the last 17 years have gone. I don’t feel like a 44 year old guy who has a 17 year old daughter getting ready to go to college. I feel more like a 30 year old guy who maybe figured out what life is all about and still has plenty of time to bestow that wisdom on his young children. I guess I can just be thankful that I didn’t screw up too badly in the growing process. My kids respect me and love me despite the faults they never quite saw behind the facade of me pretending I knew what the hell I was doing. I don’t feel I’m pretending anymore. I haven’t been pretending for quite a few years now. I think I’ve got a handle on things. That’s usually when things go to complete shit though, right? Just when you think you found the quickest, smoothest ride to work they close the road for construction? Or just when you’ve found a work-thru the formula fails and you’re back to the drawing board? You’ve written the best song of your life only to find out you pulled the melody directly from a Loggins and Messina b-side?
That’s just defeatist talk, though. That’s the self doubt demon rising from the pit of your stomach. Pushing that thing to the side was part of growing up and moving on from the stupid days. It will occasionally pop up just to let me know he’s there waiting for me to drop the ball right before I hit the end zone, but I don’t let him rule me anymore. I’m too busy trying to keep my world moving along, keeping those I love safe, happy, and thriving. Keeping my own self constantly moving forward, engaging with the world and with art and with the written word. I want to fill my head with as much of the good stuff as I can. I feel I wasted a few years spinning my wheels in the proverbial mud, pining for things that didn’t matter. I don’t ever want to go back there. Despite wondering where the years have gone, I have no interest in getting them back. I’m not concerned about the last 17 years. I’m looking forward to the next 17 years.
When my oldest daughter and I can sit and talk about politics, the #metoo movement, literature, film, indie rock, and the absurdity of The Emoji Movie, all as we sit and wait for our tour of Manchester University to begin, I feel that I might actually know what I’m doing as a responsible parent.
My love for Autumn and October started as a kid growing up in Northeast Indiana. The house I grew up in was situated in a forest of pine trees. It was a newly minted housing addition called, wait for it, the Pines. The pines were a single row of homes along to intersecting county roads that lined the edge of this pine forest. When fall rolled around pine needles would fall, turning from vibrant green to fading brown. This wasn’t like having a couple maple trees in the yard and raking those up. No, pine needles embedded into the grass. You couldn’t easily rake or blow them into a pile. It took work. Backbreaking, time-consuming work. Fortunately for my mom and dad they had two aloof sons they could barter with in order to get the raking work done. A couple Mad Magazines, some packs of baseball cards, and maybe throw in a couple Star Wars action figures and the work would be done. My brother and I would make a game out of the work. We’d rake lanes in the back yard for miniature golf. We’d create trenches where I could land the Millennium Falcon, Snow Speeder, and X-Wing Fighter. We’d make a trail for the dog to walk along(which he never did.) Raking isn’t the reason I love fall, but it was an activity that my older brother and I did together. One of the few things we both disliked doing but made something fun out of.
neighborhood got to pick out a flimsy cardboard box at Kmart, 3D, or Harveys department store that was filled with a plastic surgical smock in the colors of C3PO, Strawberry Shortcake, or He-Man; as well as a painful, molded face that might resemble that character. You’d put the smock on and your mom would tie the back for you like it was hospital gown, you’d put on said painful mask, grab a brown grocery bag, and head out for the goods. Where I grew up I was pretty lucky because there were plenty of houses along our road to hit up, as well as the adjoining Lake Forest addition that was just down the road. Traffic was minimal and the upper middle class Reagan-ites were happy to dole out sweet, mass-produced confections. I was a shy kid, so I always liked trick-or-treating with a friend. But if no friend was available my mom would walk up to the house with me(I eventually grew out of that and mom didn’t have to walk up with me anymore. I think I was 30.) There was still an air of creepiness, even in the housing addition. It was in a forest, so not much light back there with the exception of the front porch lights and a few random street lights. I can remember one year not wanting to go up to a house because they had a sign on their front porch that read “No Peddlers”. My mom tried to convince me that I wasn’t peddling, that I was trick-or-treating. I wouldn’t have any of it. Even the owner of the house was on his front porch with a bowl of candy telling me it was okay. No way. Couldn’t do it. Me and my vampire mask kept walking. I think my mom ended up grabbing some candy for me out of embarrassment; both for me and the poor guy that couldn’t give away candy to a midget-sized bloodsucker.
I don’t who Mike and Ike are, and I really don’t care to know. Their candy looks like prescription meds in gummy form. Kids aren’t interested in this crap. Please, if this is the kind of candy you’re going to give out at Halloween, just shut off the porch light, close your curtains, and hide in the basement until the purge is over. Or maybe give it to your elderly neighbor.
Okay, maybe you don’t know this, but the March of Dimes gives these out when I give them a handful of pennies as I’m in my car at a stoplight. I think I have four or five Tootsie Rolls in my glove box right now. I use them to plug leaks, or fill cracks in my drive way. I think Eisenhower dropped these from B-52 bombers on the North Koreans. Please, just stop with the Tootsie Rolls. If you give these out again next year your house will be marked for egging. Consider this fair warning.
Hey. Thanks for the kiddie cocaine, man. While you’re at it, got any candy cigarettes or licorice pistols? C’mon, knock this crap off. Colored sugar sticks don’t count as candy. You may have gotten away with this in the 70s, but not anymore. Something chocolate or go to Hell.
I like Sun Chips. Whole grain snacks. I prefer these to potato chips, actually. But guess what, THEY’RE NOT F*****G CANDY!!! While you’re at it, you can feed that g*****n popcorn ball to the crows. Nobody wants a stale ball of popcorn. And that apple? F**k no.
Okay, so the Sun Chips wasn’t enough so we add insult to injury with this? Sunflower seeds? I don’t recall us going trick-or-treating at Grace Village Retirement Community so I’m not really sure how this bag of f*****g sunflower seeds ended up in a bag of trick-or-treat candy. Who does this? A sadist, that’s who. Thanks though, our g*****n parrot will love ’em. That is, if we had a g*****n parrot.
Hmm, I didn’t know anyone ate these besides after eating pizza. I think my grandma used to keep peppermints in a glass dish on her coffee table when I was a kid. Nobody ate them, though. They were just there for show. In fact, they were there more for color scheme than anything else. Keep your hard candy to yourself. Nobody wants it.
Taffy is great. Saltwater Taffy from Coney Island? Perfect. But we’re not on the east coast. We’re in the Midwest, so we have to take what we can get. Laffy Taffy isn’t so bad, unless it’s banana-flavored. Who eats banana-flavored anything? Nobody, that’s who. Strawberry, grape, cherry, watermelon…these are acceptable flavors. Banana? Go to Hell. Just,…just go to Hell. You know, Nestle came out with banana-flavored Quik when I was a kid. Within a week people burnt the Nestle plant down and Glenn Close boiled the Nestle bunny alive on Michael Douglas’ stove top. Stop with the banana-flavored anything.
I think anyone over the age of 5-years old will pass on Smarties. These are cheap, effective tools to get your 4-year old to pick up their toys or to keep them quiet while going through Walmart, but that’s it. They’re nothing more than chewable Tylenol without the healing effects, or rejected Flintstone vitamins. You could crush them and snort them I suppose, but why would you do that? You’ve already got the Pixy Stix for that. If you’re thinking of handing out Smarties next year, don’t. Just don’t. Your car will be egged, soaped, and your dog will be dyed some weird color for your insolence.
