My three-year-old, Jack, was watching me shave yesterday morning before leaving for church. Small rivulets wended their way from razor to hand to the lowest place possible, my elbow, and dripped. "What's dat?" he asked.
"That's water dripping from my elbow," I said, trying not to cut off my ear.
"No," he said. "It's milk coming from your boobies. Dat one," indicating my right nipple, "has chocolate milk and dat one has juice."
I was at The Store That Shall Not Be Named a few weeks ago shopping for razor blade cartridges. Now since I began shaving, I have used some kind of Gillette razor, and was shopping for some cartridges for my Fusion razor. I pushed my cart and children to the proper aisle, and though I have bought razor blade cartridges before, I was shocked: Four blade cartridges in one package cost $15. And the freaky little things are locked away as if they are pot or something. So, like, I have to ask for help? That's $3.75 per cartridge! I was speechless. Why stunned this late in the game, you wonder, after spending years and countless dollars to purchase these little cartridges? I have no idea. Though I have been reading the early Fathers on voluntary Poverty. I can't picture St. John Chrysostom shelling out enough money to feed a third-world child for a month so that he could be clean-shaven. It's no wonder all the early Fathers were bearded. Buying these cartridges is almost un-Christian, I thought. Why not buy condoms while I was at it?! And then, as I was standing in the same aisle with two of my little ones piled into a cart like so much merchandise, I saw the double-edged razor blades my dad uses: Ten blades for $1.67. Of course The Store That Shall Not Be Named doesn't sell the razors, just the blades. So I found something completely frivolous to spend my $15 on and then went home and ordered a nice razor, a Parker 91R, for a little less than $30 - with 20 razor blades included. 20 cartridges for my old razor would have cost nearly $75, if I've done my math correctly.
When my Parker 91R arrived in that little Amazon box that I so love, I tossed my Gillettes. I've only used the Parker three times so far (I don't shave often as a stay-at-home Dad - it's one of the perks). I do, however, need to shave at least once a week, for the Lord's sake. While shaving today (I have to take a child to the pediatrician), in some bit of a hurry, I beat myself up good. After shaving, it looked as if a light bulb had blown up in my face. And after applying little pieces of toilet paper to my face so that I wouldn't bleed out in the sink, my face looked like that little bear's ass on those Charmin commercials. (Yes, right now my face looks like the butt of a bear who wipes with cheap toilet paper.)
Yet while I nearly took off my nose today, all I could think about was the money I was saving. How sweet is that? And wouldn't God be pleased? It shouldn't take more than a couple of years to get used to this, well, weapon. And around that same time I might even be ready to open the second package of blades that came with the razor. Man, I am such a good Christian.
Life is full. I miss blogging, but I often feel as if I don't have the time unless I steal it from another place. I feel as if I'm taking something from my family when I walk up the stairs to my little half-storey office and sit down at the computer. At least when I watch TV, I watch it with others - perhaps we're only a group of isolated people in front of the TV, but it still feels more communal to me than the computer. Presence is important. Being present is not everything, but it is something more than absence.
That being said, I woke early this morning and would like to share a few items.
Cate was baptized, in a somewhat private affair, on February 28. The other children were baptized quite publicly, during Sunday Mass, but this was a quiet affair on a Saturday morning. It was lovely, as are all baptisms. And tears, though not shed, were heavy in my eyes. As I get older, I get weepier - rather, I am more easily brought to tears. All the same, sacraments and tears seem ready companions, for how can one be brought into the presence of such grace, the presence of God, without tears? It is at such times that joy or sorrow or repentance or comfort or peace swells into salty sacramentals. Glory to Jesus Christ!
Anna will be receiving the sacrament of Reconciliation (Conversion, Confession, Forgiveness, Penance) tomorrow morning. The children will be singing two songs and doing some readings and meditations before going before Christ to receive peace and pardon. It is a wonderful introduction to their life in Christ, and a sacrament that needs a better exemplar in their father. I hope to make Penance a more regularly sought grace in my own life. This sacrament is too often misunderstood by me, too often pushed away. I imagine because I need it so desperately.
We went to a St. Patrick's Day feast at our parish last weekend (Guinness stew - yum!) and simply had a ball. The kids did some Irish dancing, and I can't remember the last time all of us had so much fun. I was flushed with joy, drunk. During one of their dances, Fr. Al got up and was swinging from partner to partner by his elbow and when he got to Will, the raccoon couldn't do it - the thought of dancing with Father sent him into hysterics. What joy! What fun! It's good being Catholic. It reminded me of the Simpsons clip, if I can be so irreverent, of Homer and Bart's conversion to Catholicism and Marge's vision of heaven - of what Catholic heaven is like. What a great memory (the dinner); what wonderful fellowship.
About Fr Cantalamessa, the preacher of the Pontifical Household, and his second reflection on Advent:
Finally, Father Cantalamessa considered Paul's declaration that "forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."
This "forgetting," the preacher proposed, is detachment from any good that one has done in the service of the Church, "repeating to oneself, according to Christ's suggestions: 'We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty.'"
In this regard, he concluded with a Christmas reflection: "This emptying of one's hands and pockets of every pretension, in a spirit of poverty and humility, is the best way to prepare for Christmas.
"We are reminded of it by a delightful Christmas legend that I would like to mention again. It narrates that among the shepherds who ran on Christmas night to adore the Child, there was one who was so poor that he had nothing to offer and was very ashamed. Reaching the grotto, all competed to offer their gifts. Mary did not know what to do to receive them all, having to hold the Child in her arms.
"Then, seeing the shepherd with his hands free, she entrusted Jesus to him. To have empty hands was his fortune and, on another plane, will also be ours."
HT: ZENIT
My seven year old got hold of a Current catalogue in the mail. All evening she worked on a letter to Santa of all the things she wanted, from Current. It turned out to be quite comprehensive - a list that filled a piece of paper, front and back. Not a bulleted list, please understand, but serialized, all the items separated with commas. There is very little white space. It includes items such as, "Personalized notepads in a tote," and things like it. Hundreds of items like it. Though, to be fair, Current doesn't have all its eggs in the holiday wrapping and cards basket (or tote) any more. If I ever have the time, I'll try to post her list here.
So I haven't been the ideal blogger lately. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. And I don't have much to say at 1:21 p.m on Tuesday, except that while playing Monopoly Junior with my four-year-old son this morning, he said, "I wuv pwaying wif you."
Staying home with the kids isn't sexy or glamorous. But who needs rock and roll when you've got that?
Yesterday, before Mass (Feast of the Assumption), our oldest was asked if she wanted to be an altar server. We questioned the wisdom of it. But she was interested and our priest and the other altar server said they'd keep track of her. She did great. But there was that one moment.
Next to the chair where our priest sits are three stools for the acolytes. When Sophie first sat down on hers she was expecting a chair back. Yeah. It really happened. She rolled off the stool backward onto the floor. All you could see were her legs kicking back and forth behind the stool as she tried to right herself. It was quite funny, but I kept a straight face and made sure she wasn't embarrassed to tears. When she got up, she was red, but had a grin on her face and took it in stride. She did great, and I was very proud.
A few days back, my wife, Laura, asked my seven-year-old daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up. Anna said, "I want to be a teacher. And then when I lose my job I want to be an artist."
Evangelization, St. Francis of Assisi, Evolution and Contraception have been on my mind lately - a semi-unrelated list of subjects I've been thinking about. Aimee Milburn got me thinking about Evangelization, of course, and it's been popping here and there on my radar screen since.
I'm reading Chesterton's St. Francis of Assisi and am continually floored by this saint who has always had such a phenomenal presence in my life, in my mind; I can't think of a moment in my life when I was not aware of him. It's hard to think of many who have made so great a contribution to my philosophy of life and faith, and who have been content to teach me of such things quietly from the margins.
I've been watching some videos and reading some books on evolution, and Christian thought about evolution. It's quite fascinating as I've never taken an in-depth look at evolution before in my life. (I think that's a shame, by the way. Not because evolution is all that, but because, rather than simply learning characterizations, I should have been educated, should have educated myself, about one of the most influential theories of the past millennium.) Recently I've watched a special titled Judgment Day: Intelligent Design on Trial about the debacle just a couple of short years ago in Pennsylvania about evolution and intelligent design in the public schools. And currently I'm working through a PBS series mysteriously titled Evolution. Along with those videos I've read or am reading Cardinal Schönborn's Chance or Purpose? Creation, Evolution and a Rational Faith, and Creation and Evolution: A Conference with Pope Benedict XVI in Castel Gandolfo. I'm also reading an interesting book by a former Seventh-Day Adventist, now an agnostic, Ronald L. Numbers, titled The Creationists: From Scientific Creationism to Intelligent Design which attempts to trace the history of the young-earth-creationist movement. I'll let you know on how well I think he did if and when I make it through the book. I've owned Darwin's On the Origin of Species for some time and will also be taking a gander at it. Let me know of other materials you know of that would be worth my while.
And on the contraception front, there's a sardonic view of the prophetic truth of Pope Paul VI's Humanae Vitae in this month's First Things. I know speaking of contraception stirs up a whole mess, but this article is an interesting look back at a now-40-year-old document, and the consequences of our ignoring it. And it's shameful for those of us who are Catholics who have not been sturdy enough defenders of the faith in respect to our sexuality - not to stir the pot or anything.
Finally, I wanted to share this clip from the Daily Show from last night. The whole clip is quite funny, but what tickled me in particular was a piece near the middle of the clip where Stewart talks about Indymac's collapse and their offer of "water" to their customers, whose line rambles down the sidewalk. It's hilarious and serves as an important reminder to use punctuation properly, or at least more properly.
The other day, wonder of wonders, my daughter gave me a pencil to sharpen. I worked on it for several minutes, but couldn't quite get down to the lead. I looked at it carefully, then, took out my pocket knife and split it open. The pencil had no lead. Not an ounce. In my 37+ years I've never seen such a thing.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Come quickly.
Yesterday, Will was combing his hair, which he never does. He looked at a picture of St Paul that I had on the table, who was holding the Scriptures in one hand and a sword in the other. Intrigued by the sword, he said, "I want my hair to look like him."
"He's bald, son," I said.
The yellow-haired child has been carrying around a plastic silver-colored earring that she can slide on or off - I'm not sure earring was the pea-sized circle's primary purpose in its creation, but it's what it's used for. Of course, I rarely see it on her ears. It's usually on her nostril or her lip.
Yesterday she had it on her lower lip most of the day, and after Laura got home from work I switched it up to her nostril (I'm really no help in raising proper children). Sophie walked by and, upon seeing it, dismissed it saying, "It'd sure be hard to pick your nose."
My oldest daughter, Sophie, is receiving her first Holy Communion tomorrow. Her grandmother made her dress; she's going to look beautiful. Her last practice is tonight, and then in the morning she's going further into the life of the Church. We're excited for her, as you can imagine. It's going to be quite a liturgy. Pray for us.
In the afternoon, I will try to post some pictures of her in her dress.
Funny story: Monday night, at her last practice, the first-time communicants practiced going forward, and they received unconsecrated bread and wine. When Sophie got back to the pew she sat down next to me and shuddered. She looked at me, grimaced and said, "That wine don't taste very good."
This morning at 7:00, I heard pounding outside the window (the windows have been open for some time in North Carolina). I looked outside and found Grandma X., across the road, in her robe with a hammer and a sign. She's driving a stake into the heart of the devil, and it reads "Vote NO Alcohol May 6."
We go to the polls here in North Carolina on Tuesday. But as you can see there are bigger fish to fry than a silly little presidential primary. This happens to be a dry county. And whether we, as a community, jump off the wagon is up for vote.
Now I'm a big fan of temperance, certainly its spiritual necessity, but to show all my cards I'm also a fan of seconds. (No cult of the body practiced here.) I'm quite at odds, however, with the temperance movement and fail to understand sympathies for it today. I suppose many people have seen their share of pulpit beatings on the subject. I suspect many people know someone who succumbed to ye olde fyre water.
For me, however, there were two sins committed in those strange times when teetotalers gained the power of prohibition: Wasting so much good alcohol and injuring the word temperance for over a century. And the sin against our language is the worse because it still shades meaning today. At least the short epochs of Prohibition in our country produced some fine domestic brews.
If we vote No on Tuesday, I will be okay. No home brewing for me, of course, but that doesn't change anything. So pound the stake in deep, Grandma X. If you wouldn't mind, though, could you wait till 8:00 a.m. next time?
When my wife picked me up from the bookstore on that fateful February afternoon, I opened the truck's door to find a tangle of gaudy steel, rubber, and self-dressed children. Thrift-shop bikes were packed into every nook and cranny of the vehicle, sharing seats with and providing footrests for children. One child complained that the handlebar was digging into her ribs.
"They're ugly," I protested as I re-arranged the bikes the best I could. "The tires are bald." I slammed the tailgate and pulled myself into the driver's seat. I gave Laura my best look of exasperation and I turned the ignition. "They're crap."
"Fix them for the kids," she said in soft Marian tones.
"I hate crap from thrift shops," I wanted to bellow, though the stores often clothe my family.
And, until spring, the bikes lay in a pile under our carport on the red lava rocks that pave our drive. Spring comes easily in North Carolina. One of the bikes was picked up, the one with training wheels, by a child visionary who dreamed of freedom, of wind in her hair, who had fire in her legs. She cajoled her parents into supervision. She rode back and forth in front of our house and the others heard the whoosh of her bike and saw the joy radiating from her cherubic cheeks. Once, as she passed closely by, the breeze stirred the latent embers of desire in other small chests, chests that also yearned for freedom regardless the cost.
I saw the flame in their eyes; I shook my head silently. I turned and looked at the pile of broken bikes that needed fixing. "Shit."
It happened nearly as soon as a thrift-shop bike was ridden, the tire would go flat. One after another, as systematically as bubble wrap. So I went to the bike shop and laid out big money for a quality floor pump. (It also inflates automobile tires easily and has an accurate gauge.) Next, I stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up new tires and inner tubes, bike tools, and helmets (after a brief conversation with a police officer who stopped by one afternoon while the kids were riding bareheaded). All told, I spent nearly as much as I would had I bought all new bikes for the kids. Of course, to be fair, they still wouldn't have helmets, and I wouldn't have my bike tools and my expensive floor pump.
So I made a sign and officially opened Fat-Ass Bike Repair, the red-neck branch (is there another?), and went to work. I changed multiple inner tubes and put on new white, BMX style tires. The floor pump worked beautifully. Having the proper tools for the job was a dream. Soon the girls were riding. And within days, all of them were riding without training wheels. With Vulcan still sweating furiously in my breast, I retrieved my 25-year-old Raleigh 12-speed. It's moved with us everywhere across the Southeast, but hasn't been ridden since college. It needed a new tube for the front tire. It will also eventually need new brakes, as the old ones brake softly, and new shifters, which don't work (or perhaps derailers - I'm not sure yet). The seat is fine, if too small and too hard - a bit like bull-riding on a birch stump, I would imagine - and my large ass looks as if it is on the verge of swallowing it. But the bike works. (It was this bike that gave me piles my freshman year in high school. We have memories.)
Still, my wife needed a bike also. When we bought our house, two old bikes were parked under the carport. One was a men's 10-speed and the other was an old Huffy BayPointe 3-speed, a vintage cruiser, for a woman. The BayPointe was in need of some air and care, but that's about it. And soon, after adding a basket, and after a good rust scrub and wash, the bike was ready to go.
The girls rode their bikes at every opportunity. They gained the confidence and skills necessary for a trip down to the locally owned grocery (about a half mile down the road) and rode down yesterday for soda and candy with their mama. (Laura's basket detaches from its mount and can be used as a grocery basket inside the store, which is cool.) They made their daddy proud - especially when they brought him a Snickers.
Two days ago, the little tow-headed, ringlety haired boy who lives across the street asked my five year old if she would be his girlfriend. His name is Max. After being asked, the yellow-haired child ran inside to confer with her mother: "What should I say?"
"Tell him, 'Not until I'm 16.' "
Which she did. Apparently he was quite amenable and said they'd just be friends until then.
Is this my future with three girls - the tendrils of which even now begin to wind their way so gingerly about my neck?
Boys - one more reason to homeschool. Neighborhood Boys - one more reason to own a Louisville Slugger and to chew Skoal: "You wanna what, boy?" Ptoo. Of course, where I live, spectacles, a pipe, and a thick Victorian novel might better do the trick.
The yellow-haired girl eschews todays, yesterdays, and last weeks. She prefers this days and the other days. And when she speaks of that difficult-to-wait-for future, she speaks of the next days. Some days, of course, get their proper due: Her birthday, for instance, and Christmas. But even more than birthdays and Christmases, she speaks of the Lake Days. These are halcyon days: Summer evenings at the lake. Riotous family days.
In winter, she hides her bathing suits under her clothes as she dresses, and she comes out of her room and asks when the Lake Days will come. Their absence weighs on her.
She doesn't feel the rocky beach beneath her quick, sturdy feet that so torment me. She doesn't see the cloudy water that makes me wonder about the safety of swimming in this dammed-up river. She doesn't feel the unrelenting heat and the restlessness her father feels to leave for a more air-conditioned country. She only wants it to be the days when she only wants it to be now, this day.
Oh for the Lake Days, when one casts off the too-fittedness of modernity and clothes oneself with water, buoyed up and released. There is new life in that brown river, swept down this day.
Yes, I'm going there, for posterity's sake (posteriority's sake?) - you've been warned.
So I was doing some, well, intensive thinking in my favorite room for meditation - my closet (in all fairness, my water closet). Baby Jack was pulling up on the tub and chattering excitedly. Then in waltzes the yellow-haired child, who, lest you raise eyebrows, is not supposed to be in the Prayer Closet at the same time that Daddy is, you know, meditating. She looks at the baby and then looks at me and asks, with potential disdain about her eyes, "Does Baby Jack like the smell of your poop?"
I said, "I suppose he doesn't mind it."
She said, "I wish I was [sic] Baby Jack," and then walked out of the room.
I sat in my car waiting for my girls to finish their Faith Formation classes. In the parking lot the Knights of Columbus were selling Christmas trees.
A man and his three kids drove up to pick up their trees. Two for them. One for Grandma. The daughter was the oldest at about 12, the younger boys, perhaps 10 and 8. And as I watched them flit from tree to tree, like hummingbirds, it struck me what joy children bring into our world. And I wondered if, without them, how long we would exchange gifts or put up trees or tell stories. (All of which certainly deserves qualification, but for now, I'm leaving it there.) The children were wide-eyed and their chatter was constant. "Daddy! Daddy!" they cried. "Look at this tree! Wouldn't this one be perfect downstairs!"
Daddy, daddy.
Not long afterward, we lit our Advent wreath - the first in our home. We turned off all the lights and ate by the flame of a single candle intent on imparting hope to us. The children, mine this time, were wide-eyed and their chatter was constant. They asked questions (Having just seen Fiddler on the Roof for the first time, one of them asked, "Are we Jewish, now?") and told stories. "Daddy! Daddy!" - they clamored for my ear.
And, as I treasured the experience in my heart, I realized that this night, though perhaps not specifically December 2, 2007, this night would be remembered. Advent would be part of who they are, who they become. Just as I, even as a confirmed Protestant, would always find Midnight Mass and Christmas inseparable events. Just as this ring on my finger bears witness to memory, to union, to life.
Our personhood is birthed in memory. We give our children memories, cherished traditions, so that their faith is rooted not in the ephemerality of Idea, but in the permanence, the concreteness, of water and flame, of fir and crèche, of ashes and fish. So that when the tempter comes to them, they can go to the Jordan and see the rocks in its midst. So they can arise and journey to Bethel and know that there is a ladder there. So that a candle will give hope, and a cross, peace.
Anna came home from school today and asked me, "Is darn a bad word, Daddy?" She had heard the word on TV. How do you explain euphemisms to a six year old? But I figured Anna had as good a chance as anyone at wrapping her mind around the concept. So I began to explain to her what euphemisms were, why they were used, and how people felt about them. I told her that many words depended on how they were said rather than that they were said. I also said that around some people, and in some situations, even euphemisms were bad manners and considered bad words. I said that it would probably be best for her to try not to use them now, but that I was sure she probably would as she got older and that that was OK with me.
Now for Anna, writing and drawing helps her understand concepts that are new to her or that she's been thinking about. I presume this to be true because she does so much of it and because I'm wired the same way. And so at supper, my wife and I were not surprised to find that Anna had written a list of euphemisms on the white board we use for homeschooling.
And we laughed and laughed and laughed. We even verbally added a few of our own "euphemisms" that I can't post on the blog.
Here's what she wrote:
I don't think I've told you about how my faith was nearly crushed by a balloon. If I have, please bear with me. It's worth repeating.
The past two years have been filled with uncertainty, questions, doubt, rejection, and even death. And then this past summer brought with it an extraordinary drought and blazing temperatures. August was not a good month. The A/C went out the night before one of the hottest days of the year. Our vehicles bitched and moaned incessantly and protested vigorously. And I did my share. Our home seemed to be falling apart around us and we had no resources to address the entropy of our lives.
And I was tired. And I was losing hope. And the Lord, great and powerful, awesome and mighty, rent the heavens, came down upon clouds, and gave me a swift kick in the seat of my pants. I was able to repair the A/C. But then the ceiling fan broke, which is very effective in helping the heat pump deliver the cool air. So after a few days, I choked up $50 for a new fan and installed it. It worked beautifully. And, I suppose, it became a symbol of hope for me. It was a sign that things would be OK. It showed me that while things wound down in life, I had the ability to wind them back up again - some things, at least. And the next day a child (my child, my wife assures me) walked under the fan with a balloon and stopped the fan dead. Tore clouds out of the sky. Ripped hope from my heart. Made me question everything. I sat down at the dining room table and roared and grumbled, and, finally, I wept. I removed my crucifix and placed it in front of me. I removed my glasses. I wondered if I would wear both again. I was angry and full of despair because of a stupid balloon and a cheap ceiling fan.
That, my friends, is the measure of my faith. That is the extent of my hope. That is the depth of my love.
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I put my glasses back on. And my crucifix too.
An idea struck me. I flipped the switch to turn the fan in the opposite direction and turned it on again. It began to move. I turned it off. I flipped the switch back to where it had been and turned it on again. And it worked. It has worked since.
I don't know why it worked, though a simple explanation, I'm sure, could be given. I am not claiming any great miracle here. But I do know that when that fan came to life again after I thought it was dead, it was as if the Lord had removed His heavy and terrible hand from me.
And it begins to rain again. And Catholic Frogs unbury themselves and shake mud from their eyes. Flowers bloom where no flowers had been, and rivers flow in once-barren river beds.
There will be other droughts in my life. But, my God, this is beautiful.
Our hearts were made to hold that which the heavens cannot contain. But they grow clumsy when we try to grab lesser things, like fans or cars or even deserts that green. They are the wrong tools for holding lesser things.
I am a man of little faith. I am a man not unlike St Thomas. And God, as He draws me into His life, is merciful to my weakness and offers me His hands and His side. My Lord and my God!
So much has happened in October, our heads are still spinning.
Here's the latest: We got a new vehicle - a 2004 Ford Expedition. Our phat minivan was on its last leg: It smoked constantly and refused to start O so often. I had taken to calling it the Old White Dragon for all its smoking and stinking. It needed to go. We've put a couple thousand into it for the past two years just to keep it running and there was no way it was going to make it through all our traveling during the holidays - especially through the Virginias on the way to Michigan.
Now, the Expedition is sweet and I never thought I'd own one due to its price tag, but we had to have something to meet the needs of our family. I'm still unsure whether we'll be able to afford it, but I can eat ramen noodles and potatoes for a while. The minivan was packed like sardines with five kids in it - not to mention luggage and what not. The Expedition is roomy for our family and still has an extra seat just in case our gracious Lord blesses us with another child. We considered going to a 15-passenger van, but thought this would be a nice compromise until we absolutely had to go Mammoth. The gas mileage isn't great, but then it's not much different than our minivan was running and would be comparable to a 15-passenger van.
Laura suggested that it was somewhat of a status symbol, which if you knew our "status" is a knee-slapper. I said it might be a status symbol if we had only two children. Since we fill up the thing, it's a symbol only of our fecundity and not our finances.
The vehicle was not in our lava-stone driveway for 15 minutes before Will had succeeded in falling out of the back of the truck onto his head. A rock gashed him nicely and earned him an all-expenses-paid trip to the ER. He received two staples in his head. Such is life with small monkeys and curious raccoons.
He is doing quite well and seems, if possible, more rambunctious than usual - causing my heart to flutter into spasms and yet even more of my hair to shock into white.
I've considered shaving that patch of his head and making the staples visible for Halloween - then we could go in the direction of zombie or Frankenstein's monster quite nicely. But I suppose the hair does protect the wound and I probably ought to leave it alone. Man, that would be a sweet costume though. It might be worth an infection or two.
Anyway, that is my News of the past three days - October has been full with days like that. The good news is that fall temperatures have finally reached us and we even had a week of rain. I may need to mow that lawn yet.
Enjoy your Halloween celebrations. We'll be spending a good chunk of our day crafting and eating candy. I think I'll have to make up some "ghoul-ash" for supper tonight.
