Happy Halloween

I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not dress up.
I do not give out candy.
I do not buy candy.
I do not buy apples and nuts.
I do not turn on my porch light.


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I hate that:
1. Halloween costumes and candies hit the shelves right after Labor Day.
2.  My local Goodwill Store has turned into Halloween Central right at the point of the season that I am looking for wool blend sweaters.
3. People start putting hay in parking lots where there has never been any hay all year, to "stage" pumpkins where there have never been any pumpkins all year.

Presto, overnight…a pumpkin patch.
(Nobody’s buying that.)


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not accept Halloween party invitation,
especially not to masquerade parties.

I went to one once. I was really excited about it because my costume was so original. I went as a chocolate Kiss, or that was the plan. The long strip of paper with the words Kisses, Kisses, Kisses on it was the part that was  to covered my face.

Had I known more about material back then I would have drapped brown fleece over the kissy frame and gone as an unwrapped chocolate Kiss. But no-o-o-o. I had to go as a wrapped Kiss. An aluminum foil-wrapped chocolate Kiss!

On the night of the event, I wore a brown leotard and tights as the base of the costume. I placed the Kiss-shaped frame in the back seat of my car, and drove to the party. My outfit was ingenious. I would just slip the frame over my head when I arrived, then pull the paper mask with the Kisses streamer over my head.

It was a pretty mild evening when I left my home, but by the time I arrived on the other side of town, the temperature had dropped, and the wind had picked up.

I had to park several blocks away from the host’s home. (Uh-oh. This is not looking so good.) I sat in the car, waiting for the wind to calm down. If it didn’t, how would I get to the front door with my costume in tact?

So I waited. And it began to rain.


Always have a Plan B. If not, improvise.

My original plan was falling apart. My Heavy Duty Reynolds Wrap Kiss frame would never maintain its shape and survive the mad dash to the house.

With a few minor adjustments, I reasoned, I could arrived victoriously as a Kiss that was partially melted by the rain. Or, as a Tootsie Roll, a bit confused, in a Kiss wrapper. I could see myself regaling the crowd with a story about how the Tootsie Roll wound up in the wrong sheath. (This could work!)

So, I took the aluminum foil sheets off the Kiss-shaped wires, wrapped them around my skinny brown frame, and darted toward the house.

How was I oblivious to the fact that the foil, once it became wet and cold, would likewise lower my body temperature? I was running like the Tin Woman towards the front door, soggy and shivering, when a strong wind whipped up behind me, and stripped me of half the foil.

Thank goodness I didn’t have to ring the doorbell. I entered the house inconspicuously and dove for the kitchen. I need to dump the remaining foil, and reposition myself. What would I be now?

Then I heard the opening chords to one of those get-the-party-started kind of songs: The Freaks Come Out At Night by Whodini. (If I don’t decide what to do, I am going to spend the night hiding in the kitchen instead of shaking my booty on the dance floor.)

The streamer, meant to serve as a mask, magically became a sash,  place diagonally across my chest, and I instaneously transformed into YaYa, winner of the Ms. Kiss contest. It worked. I danced the night away. I even remember receiving a lot of unsolicited “congratulations” kisses that evening.

Our Halloween Treat for You, Dear Readers

Mookie and FuBu are disappointed that we won’t be sitting outside watching the sky this evening. Sometime tonight, kids will set off firecrackers, and I do not want my black cats harmed. So we are staying close to the hearth.

We have made a list of our 15 Top Favorite Halloween Songs By Which To Dance.
We'll be dancing by the fireplace tonight. Join us. You can find all of these songs on You Tube (www.youtube.com). ENJOY.

15.    Monster Mash--Bobby Pickett
14.    The Theme from “The Addams
         Family
13.    Man Eater—Halls and Oats
12.    Ghostbusters--Ray Parker, Jr.
11.    Boogie Man--K. C. and the
         Sunshine Band


10.    Boogie Nights--Heat Wave
09.    Disco Inferno—The Trammps
08.    Moondance—Van Morrison
07.    Black Magic Woman—Santana
06.    The Phantom of the Opera--“The
         Phantom of the Opera"

05.    Freak of the Week--Funkadelics
04.    Doin' the Cosmic Slop
         --Funkadelics
03.    You Must Have Put A Spell on
         on My Mind--Blue Magic
02.    The Freaks Come Out at Night--
         Whodini

01.    Thriller—Michael Jackson

It Is Well with My Soul

“It is in the quiet crucible

of your personal private sufferings 

that your noblest dreams are born 

and God’s greatest gifts 

are given in compensation

for what you have been through.” 

Wintley Phipps

By The Light of The Moon

It’s a warm night, a full moon is having its way with the sky, and Mookie and FuBu won’t come in the house. They have flipped me off with their tails and warned me not to interfere with cat business. So, I am sitting on a picnic table outside, calling myself keeping them company until they’ve had enough of romping and chasing with abandon.

The swell of the ocean is beating against the beach. I can hear it through the trees, less than a mile away. The moon pulls, the ocean engorges; an ancient rhythmic dance   they’ve enjoyed since the beginning of time.

I’ve begun musing about things I’ve done by the light of La Luna.

I’ve sat in a cemetery, leaning up against a cold headstone, counting the stars. In my teens, this was a standard date option with almost every guy I went out with during the warm months.  (Take the fast girls to lovers’ lane; take the undertaker’s daughter to the cemetery.)

I once took a guided moonlit hike into the middle of the woods with a group of women to sing and invoke the Goddess. 

I’ve walked many a beach at night by the light of full moon, bundled up in the arms of a loved one. I have walked many more beaches in the solitude of my own scintillating company.

I’ve walked out of midnight mass into fresh snow with the blue cast of the moon reflecting off it.


(Wait a minute, let me go get a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.)

There is a slight breeze breathing on the trees behind my home, now. The eucalyptus leaves are swaying; and, Mookie is rolling around on the pavement and then sliding forward on his side, before he flops onto his other side to repeat. He is impervious to FuBu as she swats as his tail each time he glides by her. They are not the least bit interesting in going inside, and now it’s almost midnight.

I’ve now position myself on the hood of my car, door open, a Carlos Santana CD in the player.

I learned to pee--standing up, by the light of a silver sliver on the edge of a lake, many moons ago. This was a skill a new boyfriend felt I needed in order to go on a week-end camping trip with him. Snuggling up tight to fit in one sleeping bag was on his mind. “Where will I go to the bathroom?” was on mine. (I was not born to rough it. My idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel with no in-room robe or room service!) Camper Guy and I did not stay together very long.

Of course, I’ve danced under the light of the moon with many fah-bu-lous, smooth dancers. This is my favorite of all the moonlight memories. I enjoy it as much as Mookie enjoys his autoerotic slithering on the pavement. I am air slithering right now. I’m trying to remember how to salsa as I listen to Santana’s Africa Bamba.

“Will I ever remember how to move my hips again?” I ask Mookie and FuBu. They are now looking up at me the way they had been looking at the moon just moments ago. Mezmerized. I am swaying to the music, trying to sync my feet, my hips, my shoulders, and my head.

I want to turn up the bass of the CD player, but all my neighbors’ lights are out. Mookie, FuBu and I are night creatures; they are early birds. I’m just getting into the swing of the music. I want to twirl. The cats take a look at me as I begin to spin in the moonlight and high tail it to the front door. Somewhere in the dark, their friends must be lurking. I think I have embarrassed them.

So I turn the music off, lock the car door, gather my empty wine glass, and pause to hear the breeze in the trees and the  lapping of the ocean one last time before I turn in. Before stepping back into my home, I ask Mother Moon, “Will I ever move fluidly to those ancient rhythms again? Will I romp and chase with abandon?"

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part II: The Pen is Mightier

Nora Ephron, acclaimed essayist, novelist, screenwriter, director, and the eldest of the prolific sisterly clan (which includes Delia, Amy, and Hallie)) often says of their mother:

“My mother wanted us to understand that the tragedies of your life one day have the potential to be comic stories the next.”

Thank you, Mama Ephron!

When Nora’s four year marriage to journalist Carl Bernstein (of Watergate fame) ended in 1980 (due to his flagrant affair with a British politician), Ephron was compelled to write the 1983 novel Heartburn, which was later made into a 1986 film starring Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep.

In the 2003 hit movie, Something’s Got to Give, when Diane Keaton’s character, Erica Barry, has her heart broken by Jack Nicholson’s character, Harry Sanborn, she does what any self-respecting playwright would do. She writes a scathing, Broadway comedy about it.

This is not about viciousness, vengefulness, or vindication, Dear Reader. This is about catching the curve ball and throwing it right back. This is about making lemonade out of lemons. This is about being the agent of your own life, the teller of your own tale.

There is a myriad of research that suggests acts of creativity, but especially writing, can help a person to process debilitative emotions such as anger, despair, fear, hopelessness, and loneliness. Writing through the pain, leads us to the lessons, the laughter, and on to a lighter life. Creativity heals.

Better to pick up a pen rather than a pill.
Better to write than to fight.

Better to share your experiences, strength, and hope.
Better to let go and flow.

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part I: How My Breasts Saved My Life

I have wanted to write ever since my parents and babysitters began reading to me and I understood the power of words and the magic of stories. Once my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cherry, confirmed I had talent, my course was set. At the time, the only black female writers I knew of were the poets Gwendolyn Brooks and Phyllis Wheatley (first published African American poet.)

I literally dreamed of writing. My father would bring home reams of paper from the trash bins of the stationers, who were customers of my grandfather’s rubbish business, just for me. (One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.) I read voraciously, just like my mother, and created books and magazines with my free paper. I even read the “how to become a writer” ads in the back of Richie Rich comic books, and I dreamed.

Every other Friday evening, I read Brenda Starr comic books as I sat in the chair at the beauty parlor, while Mrs. Grantham, the beautician, untangled the knots in my thick hair. She combed (it seemed like for hours) and I fantasized about myself as a black version of Brenda. Remember her?

"Brenda Starr, the tempestuous and flamboyant redhead was always impeccably dressed and coifed as she traveled the globe on one exciting assignment after another for her newspaper, The Flash.  Each adventure was filled with glamour, romance and intrigue as this remarkable heroine was perpetually torn between the demands of her career and the many loves of her personal life.

Brenda showed readers a new type of heroine as she fought, from the very first day on the job at The Flash, for her right to be treated as an equal.  Always on the cutting edge of fashion, Brenda has a sleek and sexy style that conveys the allure and independence of a workingwoman at the top of her career." www.effanbeedoll.com/2004BreandaStarr.htm

(Hey, what’s up with my emulation of redheads? See Hail to Pippi, my July 4 blog post.)


I excelled in English and creative writing in high school; I majored in English Literature and Journalism at Georgetown University. I worked for both Department of Defense’s and NASA’s public information offices while in Washington, D.C. Upon graduation in 1976, I was hired by my hometown daily newspaper. I was a feature writer there for a year when I was invited to apply for a public relations writer and editor position for a pharmaceutical company.

Truthfully, this is where I veered off the path I had navigated for myself. Enticed by the salary and my need to pay off college loans, I began a 10-year career of corporate writing and editing, moving further and further away from my dream to write literature.

I knew two years into my corporate career that being a creative type in companies like Warner-Lambert (now Pfizer) and Exxon (now ExxonMobile) was like being a conductor in a straight jacket. At this rate, I would never explore creative writing.

I loved my work as a public relations person, but the corporate mold was just too tight. I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I was losing the ability to hear my creative voice. The only voice I could detect was a teeny-weeny one that seemed to be whimpering at the bottom of a well: “P-l-e-e-e-z e don’t do this to me. I’m dying in here. Let me out.”  (Kinda like Tinkerbelle on Quaaludes.)

And then there was the rumblings of my internal bully, Bruiser the Abuser: "Are you crazy! You'll never make this kind of money again. Buck up, shut up, and keep twisting your self into knots. Make money and invest. So what if you get an ulcer? So what if you have migraine headaches? So what if you are depressed?  Save those touchy-feely writing dreams until you are a millionaire and you have the time to write."

Eight years and four surgeries to remove (benign) breast tumors later, I decided to leave the stultifying corporate corridors. But not before a crisis occurred that became a defining moment in my life.


Before the last cancer scare, in 1985, the surgeon recommended that we remove both breasts as a preventive measure. I was 32-years-old with no history of breast cancer in my lineage. The doctor callously told me that since I had not breast-fed any babies at my age, I was at an increased risk for breast cancer. "One day, you are likely to have a tumor that is cancerous. And, since you have no plans to become a mother (yes, that part was true,)... you do not need them (the breasts!) anyway." What?!? So why not lop them off? (Oh, yes he did.)

By this time, a chorus had joined Tinkerbelle at the bottom of the well, and they were singing out to my heart: “This is a time of reckoning. Weigh your choice carefully. Be true to yourself and 1) save your life or 2) bet the breasts in order to stay in the rat race.” When your spirit serves it up that starkly, you'd better have some clarity when you make your decision.

So, I chose to change my lifestyle--its pace, its focus. I got off the merry-go-round. I packed my bags, packed my car, and drove across country to the San Francisco Bay Area. Trained to follow formal routes, I enrolled in graduate school rather than jump right into writing. I earned a MA in Speech and Communication Studies in 1990 with the hopes that I would write non-fiction pieces on communication and relationships while I tried to retrieve my creative writing self. I expected that I would teach during the day to support myself while I worked in the evenings and on the week-end on my own writing projects.

So far, so good, right? I was forging my own path, taking risks, growing in faith.

I met Chaz in 1991 while I was training to become a mediator.  Chaz was one of the workshop leaders. We would later joke that he “trained” me. The irony does not elude me!

To be continued next week.