Ghosts of Halloween Past

Ghosts of Halloween Past

All children love Halloween. What could be better than dressing up and getting candy? When we were young, my brothers and I made our own costumes — usually from cast-off clothing from our parents. On Halloween night, we dressed in our costumes and grabbed pillowcases to gather our loot. We planned to fill those cases to overflowing. 

Everyone knew the best houses to hit — the ones that gave big Hershey bars, the ones that gave caramel apples, even the ones that gave quarters (which was a lot of money in those days). The mecca of our neighborhood was the house that gave out soft pretzels. These folks made their own and the supply was limited! Unfortunately, we never remembered just which house it was until it was too late. We had to settle for kettle corn.

Dragging our treat-laden pillowcases home, my brothers and I and removed our costumes, wiped off our make-up, and prepared for the climax of the night — trading our candy.

Each one of us used a sheet of newspaper to sort our haul. Piles of Hershey bars, Baby Ruths, pretzel sticks, Twizzlers and more grew before us.

As the oldest, with the most experience, I had the advantage in our trades. I regret to say that I was not the fairest of traders. I craved chocolate. Every year, I persuaded my brothers to part with their Hershey bars, M&Ms, and Three Musketeers. 

My brothers followed the “instant gratification” philosophy so they dived right in. I was more of a “delayed gratification” girl, so every year I put my ill-gotten chocolates into a paper bag, taped it shut, put the bag in a shoebox, taped that shut, covered the bag with brown paper, taped that shut and wrote, “This is Lisa’s candy. Do not eat!” all over it in black crayon. Then I hid the box way back in the freezer. For good measure, I locked the freezer door and put the key on top — too high for my brothers to reach.

A week later, with my mouth watering for chocolate, I’d reach into the freezer for my box. It was still taped shut but a little sloppily. The box felt a bit light. With steam pouring from my ears, I opened the box to find half — if not all — of my candy gone. Shouting my revenge, I looked for my brothers who were always suspiciously absent. My mother consoled me as I mourned the loss of my treats.

This happened every year. My threats never fazed them and I never caught them red-handed or chocolate-covered. The same charade played out at Easter and Christmas. I never learned.

Many Halloweens later, fate dealt me a blow. I became allergic to chocolate—justice for my avaricious ways. No more Hershey bars, M&Ms, or Three Musketeers for me. I miss the chocolate but I still have those brothers — a far better treat than any ever stuffed into a pillowcase. Delayed gratification of the best kind.

The Greatest Day in Baseball

The Greatest Day in Baseball

by Lisa Marie Crane

Many Years Ago

Play ball! Those words (often thought to be the last two words of our national anthem) conjure images of peanuts, hotdogs, lazy summer afternoons, home runs, and stolen bases. Fans roar or jeer as hometown heroes round the bases or drop a high fly ball.

Autumn brings the finale of the season — the World Series. Die-hard fans camp out in front of the TV or dig into their life savings to buy a ticket. Old-timers remember the greatest games, series, or players from their youth: the Miracle Mets, the ’55 Dodgers, Joe DiMaggio, Sandy Koufax, or the Phillies (do you remember) of 1980.

Yes, big-league baseball thrills many a fan but the game the goes down in my Hall of Fame was played on an old grass field in a Little League park by a bunch of kids in scruffy uniforms fielding with their fathers’ gloves. And the greatest player of all time is my brother Joe.

Joe ate, drank, and slept baseball. He could quote statistics back to the first-ever league game. Baseball greats decorated the walls of his room and his card collection was his pride and joy. Greatest games? He’d give you the play-by-play. Greatest players? Joe knew everything from their earned-run averages to their mothers’ maiden names. 

Joe carried an old red transistor radio everywhere with him. I’ll never forget sitting in a rowboat in the middle of the Great South Bay fishing — my father and I reading our books, and Joe with his ear glued to the radio hoping to pick up the faint static of the Phillies playing the Mets.

To put it simply, Joe loved baseball.

Now Joe played baseball too. From the Minors to the Majors to the Seniors in Little League, he never missed a game. Standing out on that crabgrass field talking it up, Joe was in heaven.

There was only one problem: Joe lacked the natural talent necessary for immortality. In other words, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. That never stopped Joe. He gave his all playing right field for six years, stepping up to challenge the pitcher and swinging at those impossible pitches. His teammates dubbed him “Joltin’Joe.” Once in awhile, he’d get a walk, but mostly he went down swinging. 

I was the designated fan in my family that year. Dad was managing my brother Paul’s team in the Majors and Mom was home with the little kids. I sat in the stands at either brothers’ game, looking up from my book when Paul pitched or when Joe got up to bat.

It was a typical game. Joe played right field and kept the statistics from the bench. My friend Barbara and I chatted in the stands checking out the local talent (we were fourteen). The seventh inning came and Joe was on deck. Barbara and I and the rest of the six or seven fans glanced up to see who was up and went back to our conversations. It was only Joe. He’d either walk or strike out — nothing to get excited about.

Joe took a couple of practice swings then stepped into the box. The pitcher tossed a good one right over the plate. He wasn’t worried. It was only Joe. Joe sized it up and swung, and, for the first time, connected with the ball. It sailed high over his head and into foul territory.

“Strike one,” called the umpire.

Barbara and I looked up at the crack of the bat. Could it be that Joe had finally hit one?

“Way to go, Joe!” we cheered. 

This was an event. Joe had hit the ball. The pitcher wound up and lobbed another. CRACK! Joe smacked it again! Barbara and I jumped to our feet. The rest of the crowd looked up. The ball veered to the left and drifted into foul territory. Barbara and I hooted and clapped wildly.

The pitcher leaned back and put his arm into the next one. Joe’s team lined up against the fence in the dugout. The ball sailed over the plate where Joe stood ready. POW! The ball doubled back into foul territory again and the crowd went wild.

“Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe!” the crowd chanted.

Three fouls but Joltin’ Joe was still in the game. Joe bent into his stance. The pitcher glanced at his manager, nodded to his catcher, and hurled the ball. We held our breath. The ball whistled through the air. The Senators hung on the fence. Joe’s gaze held steady. He swung. 

WHAM! Joe smashed the ball with all his might. The ball rocketed over his head, the catcher reached up — and caught it. Joltin’ Joe had fouled out.

It didn’t matter. The crowd roared. Joe’s teammates ran out and slapped him on the back. Barbara and I bounced up and down and hugged each other. After six years of living and breathing for the game, Joe had finally hit the ball.

World Series come and go. Every year brings new heroes and miracle plays. But when it comes time to vote for the most valuable player, my vote still goes to Joe — and any other kid who loves the game and gives it all they’ve got. 

So go out and root for the home team, but don’t forget the Little Leaguers living in your house, the kids who give all they’ve got in baseball, ballet, piano lessons, or math. They’re the real Hall of Famers in my book —right up there with Joe. 

All the Lonely People

All the Lonely People

Have you heard about the loneliness pill? According to researchers at the University of Chicago’s Brain Dynamics Laboratory, loneliness can be cured with medication. Scientists have determined that loneliness weakens immune systems leading to illness. People going through transitions, leaving for college, changing jobs, moving to a new community, or losing friends and family when aging, become socially isolated. Chronic loneliness can affect the brain and body. 

Today, more people live alone, fewer are getting married, and fewer married couples are having children than ever before. In former days, people were surrounded by family as they aged. In our mobile society, family members scatter. Getting together happens less often. Family safety nets disappear. Growing older when alone is twice as daunting as when surrounded by family and friends. Loss of mobility, hearing, sight, or even purpose, isolates seniors which can lead to depression.

Loneliness can strike anywhere. Adults can feel lonely in a crowd or at a party.  Children can feel alone at school. Teens can feel alone online. Feeling unwanted, unneeded, or useless, even temporarily, causes stress and sadness. 

Loneliness is daunting. In the classic Beatles’ song, “Eleanor Rigby,” Eleanor is socially isolated, sweeping up rice at the church after a wedding she didn’t attend, waiting at the window for someone who will never come. Father McKenzie “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear,” darns his socks alone. Both lonely people, working at the same church, neither offering the other company. The chorus lays it all out, “Ah, look at all the lonely people. Where do they all belong?”

 

Belonging is the key. All people need to feel necessary and wanted. How can we make this happen? We must connect. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if Father McKenzie had asked Eleanor’s opinion of his sermon? What if they had shared a quiet supper after the wedding? At the end of the song, Father McKenzie walks away from the grave of Eleanor. No one came to her funeral. He wipes Eleanor from his hands just as he does the dirt from her burial. If he had used those same hands to reach out in friendship to Eleanor, he might have cured both his loneliness and hers. 

Before we turn to medication, we should turn to one another to make connections that support those who are lonely. Do we make time to visit elderly friends? Do we call our scattered family members? Do we invite our new neighbors to join us for supper? Do we open the doors of our clubs, churches, and community centers to everyone? Do we walk outside the doors and welcome people in? Are we looking for the lonely people? 

During times of high risk for loneliness, times of transition, we must reach out to those around us. Loneliness is cured by connection. If you are lonely, reach out. If you know someone who is lonely, reach out. Making connections lifts the spirit and supports physical health. Look for the lonely people and help them belong. No pill necessary.