STORY OF THE WEEK: Full, Hungry, Satisfied

Full

Polly Kresbach doesn’t know if she can reach far enough to reach the remainder of the cherry cheesecake. She’s starting to sweat. She can see the dimples in her elbow. She can see fat clinging loosely from where other people have biceps, fat that hangs onto her bones like a fallen mountain climber scratching for the rope. She’s already staring eye to eye with three pitless olives swimming in the bottom of a jar she’d picked up at a boutique in Manhattan a few years back. She’d forgotten about the olives. She reads the expiration date. Yikes. April 2004. She swats the olive bottle, but too hard, and it zooms past her dimpled elbow, under her armpit, and against her cushioned tummy and thighs. The bottle rolls harmlessly to the linoleum floor where it spins for a second before stopping, as good as new. Polly wishes, really wishes that the bottle had broken. The fact that her insoluble body gave the bottle a safe place to land makes her want to cry. Why couldn’t the dumb thing have broken like it would have against an average human body?

She’s glad no one else is home right now because with the way she’s down on all fours, half of her body consumed by the mouth of the gaping refrigerator door and all of her ample butt flaring like the feathers of a peacock, if anyone found her, she’d feel inclined to get up and in her present plump state, that would take a shamefully long time. She’d have to back up on all fours. Then she’d have to hoist one knee up. Then she’d have to use her left hand to get some purchase on the Formica counter top of the breakfast island. Then she’d have to strain audibly to pull herself up into a standing position where she would feel inclined to tell the person, whoever it was, that she was on a new diet: Weight Watchers. Yes, she was getting rid of all the junk: the cheesecakes, the boxed chocolates, the Hostess pies, the gourmet ice cream, the frozen burritos, the breaded corndogs, the Polish kielbasa. All of it! “Good Lord, how’d I let myself get this fat?” she’d say, and then she’d cry and hope for their sympathy.

The doorbell rings.

Polly slams her head against the underside of the clear plastic tray holding up a half-used can of condensed milk which now drips down onto the small of her back and then into her pants. It’s a pity, she thinks. There had been enough sweetened condensed milk in that can to make her neighborhood-famous Can’t Leave Alone Bars, the recipe that calls for half a pound of caramels. Oh yes. She can almost taste them now.

Hungry

Grace’s husband, Alex, walks past her and the kitchen table and into the kitchen itself. “I’m starving,” he says. He opens the refrigerator and looks at its emptiness. Grace knows what he’s looking at: ¼ of a gallon of expired milk, some bottles of salad dressing, and an old half-used red onion sealed in a baggie. They say anything can be memorized after seven repetitions and he’s stolen a peek into the fridge many more times than that. Alex closes the door. He walks over to the pantry, places his hand on the knob, and leans the full weight of his body against the open door. Again, Grace knows what he’s looking at: a box containing three taco shells (one broken), a box with two ice cream cones, a near-empty bag of pinto beans, three cans of cream of chicken soup, and a crinkly wrapper containing 18 spaghetti noodles. He fishes out an ice cream cone. Grace can hear him chomp into it. It’s his second ice cream cone in ten minutes.

She waits for the next bite, but it doesn’t come because he’s put the entire thing in his mouth and now breaths through his nose as he chews. After a couple swallows, he holds up the box containing the final cone and says, “Want it?”

Grace shakes her head no, but Alex doesn’t eat the cone. He puts it back in the pantry. “For later then,” he says. “For you.”

Grace returns her eyes to her notepad. She has written HEALTH and then two inches below this she has written EXERCISE. Two inches below this, she writes NUTRITION—temporal and spiritual. She’s been asked to fill in late notice for the Sunday-School teacher tomorrow. She guesses she can do it. She draws a cloud around NUTRITION and puts a smiley-faced sun emerging from the cloud. Grace doesn’t smile. Her head aches. The ache seems to be picking up momentum too. It rocks inside her skull like a boat docked amidst heavy waves. She drops the pen with a click because she thinks she felt her fingers twitch without her approval.

“You’re shaking,” says Alex.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are. Are you cold?”

Grace says nothing. Off to the right of NUTRITION she draws a rainbow and more clouds. She hears Alex lift the lid off the cookie jar. Her head shoots up and she’s angry.

“No Grace,” says Alex before she can talk. “You haven’t eaten anything real since we had beans and spaghetti two days ago. We’re going to use this money.” He fishes a twenty dollar bill out of the cookie jar. “I’ll get paid again on Monday. We’ll pay the tithing then. I don’t think the Lord wants us to starve. It’s not like the universe is going to crumble without this twenty bucks.”

Grace stands and rollicks a bit. “We can make it two more days. Have a big drink of water. You can fool your stomach.”

“I can’t make it two more days. I can’t.”

Satisfied

Polly wishes she would have double-bagged. She opted not to in order to save time but now one of the plastic handles on the bag with the chocolate milk and pints of Ben and Jerry’s has stretched to useless. She sets the bag down and leaves it. She’ll come back for it later. There’s more stuff back at the house anyway. She could have driven it all over but she is serious about this Weight Watchers thing—might as well kill two birds with one stone. “I’m going to feel this tomorrow,” she says.

She hopes the pints of Phish Food won’t melt. She uses her shoulder to wipe at a sudden tear. “Someone should enjoy it,” she says. She takes in a big breath. This is taking longer than she’d planned. The streams of sweat gliding down her cheeks are already an embarrassment. She uses her shoulder to wipe at this too. Four more houses to go. Good Lord, four more. Had she truly received inspiration to come here? Or, more likely, had her body’s withdrawals from sugar and fat caused her brain to stop functioning properly?

A slender girl in a bikini top is sitting on the top of the back seat in a passing convertible. She is wearing shades and laughing. She yells out a hello to Polly as she cruises on by, but Polly pretends to study the houses. She can do this.

At one house from her destination, Polly hears screaming. It’s Grace, “Don’t, don’t.”

She cannot fathom Alex hitting her and yet that’s what has come to mind, instantly, without premeditation. She moves like she hasn’t moved since her eleventh grade PE class when she ran an eight minute mile. She takes the steps two at a time. The trays of sausages, the pellets of sugar cereal, the tubs of Almond Roca, and the columns of asiago cheese bagels bounce in the bags and don’t stop until her heart is racing and her sweat is pouring and her mind is forgetting it all in its effort to make a fist and produce a knock. The door opens instantly amidst the crash of a bottle of artichoke hearts on the porch.

It’s Alex and it’s Grace looking flushed. A twenty dollar bill is falling to their feet. “Are you okay? I heard screaming. I’m getting rid of this food. For some reason, I can’t get the two of you out of my mind. Can you use it?”

Another plastic handle snaps. Alex lunges for it. Polly thanks him, and compliments him on a good catch.

“We’re fine,” says Alex. “And yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Polly doesn’t know why but she believes him. Maybe it’s the tears in his eyes. “Let’s get this in your kitchen then. I’ve got some ice cream melting down there on the sidewalk.”

In the kitchen, Alex and Polly heave the bulging sacks up to the counter. Grace opens the cookie jar and drops in the $20 bill, where it will wait until Sunday.

Paige Throwing Clyde

Ashley Freestyle #2

Ashley's Freestyle #1

Abby's Freestyle Dance Part 2

Abby's Freestyle Dance Part 1

A Wonderful Trip to New Mexico







































Okay, I'm finally back home in Utah and back to the blog. I have just returned from two wonderful weeks in New Mexico at the Dar al Islam Teachers Institute. This has truly been an eye-opening experience as I've been able to meet and get to know some great people from around the country. I think the thing I'll appreciate the most is the fact that this has been a trip of clearing up incorrect perceptions. The media doesn't do justice to the greatness of the faith of Islam. If all Muslims were engaged in a holy war (as the media seems to like to portray), the crisis of terrorism would be infinitely larger than it currently is. The fact is that Muslims are like any other group; they have their bad apples, their freaks, their lost fundamentalists. The graciousness with which we (the teachers) were treated at this institute is proof that there is much to admired from the world of Islam.

Above are just a few pictures from the trip.

The porcelain dog is in Taos.

The second photo is also in Taos, at a restaurant called The Adobe. I pretended to be taking a picture of Jura from New York and Jennifer from Arizona but was in fact taking a picture of the couple in the background. Notice how the girl has her leg up on the table. She had her leg up on the table the whole night. It was rather distracting to say the least. At one point in the night, the flexible couple (I actually don't know how flexible the boy was) left their table. We considered the idea of sitting in their chairs and trying to put our legs up on the table. We all decided that none of us are that flexible.

The third photo is of me at the bowling alley in Juacamole, New Mexico. This was a nice release after nearly two weeks of lectures and reading. I was the only one not drinking but was perhaps the drunkest one there. Bowling always loosens me up. After strikes, I pulled out my Michael Jackson leg kick and aaaoow! This was not a conscious decision. Many people tried to capture the magic but every time they were ready, I either didn't throw a strike or my leg kick was just far too swift for any camera. This is a picture of one of the many times I almost got a strike but didn't. Here's a fun fact: I bowled my all time best score ever--193.

Okay, more on the trip later. This was just a glimpse.

STORY OF THE WEEK: Onions

By Larkin Weyand

Kara is the name of my girlfriend and I’m waiting for her in the living room of her parents’ house. I’ve been sitting her for nearly 30 minutes waiting. Gracie, Kara’s nine-year-old half-sister (Kara’s dad remarried when Kara was seven), comes in and sits on my lap. She’s a wiggly shy girl prone to smiles at odd moments. I think she’s a thinker without any compulsion to tell you what she’s thinking. She is her own perfect audience. Of all of Kara’s sisters, full or half, I see the most Kara in Gracie.

She rarely talks but tonight she does. “What will I do when I get married?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “but I think when you’re married, you hold hands and sometimes you kiss.”

“Will I French kiss?”

I am stunned. “I don’t know. I don’t know if you’ll do that. What do you think a French kiss is?”

“I think a French kiss is when your tongues touch.”

“How do you know that?” I say, trying to sound as uncertain as possible.

“Kara told me.”

Kids, I think. It is quiet between us for a moment. Gracie stares off into the corner where the Sunday papers from the past six months are piled. The room smells like dust. I clear my throat. “One time I kissed Kara and our tongues touched and she’d just had onions so it was really gross.”

Gracie smiles at some private thought.

“What?”

She laughs. “I like onions.”

She hops off my lap and skips away. I am convinced that through some twist of fate, I’ve traveled back in time and just talked to the nine-year-old Kara. If I’m wrong, if I haven’t traveled back in time, is the world really ready for the sequel of Kara?

Suddenly, Gracie reappears in the hallway. I call to her.

“Will you go get Kara?”

“She’s nursing,” she says and looks at me like I’ve told a dirty joke or like the Police just found a pack of gum in my jacket that I didn’t pay for. “She can’t come down until she’s done.”

This is Jackie’s rule. Jackie is Gracie’s mother and Kara’s stepmother. Every time, and I mean EVERY TIME, I come over here to the Sanders home, I have to wait at least 30 minutes to see Kara and our son because “Kara’s nursing.” These are the only words Jackie (I am expected to still call her Mrs. Sanders—certainly not Jackie, and Mom, NO WAY), ever says to me. I have trouble understanding why it would be such a ‘naughty’ thing for me to see the mother of my child nurse. What’s done is done. If it’s such a big deal, get a blanket. I’ve made the suggestion, but people just smile. It’s not a happy smile. When it’s just Kara and me, I call her the Dairy Queen. She makes the same not happy smile.

“Gracie,” I say. “Look at this.” I extend my legs so that I can reach down into my pocket. Gracie comes to my side and waits like she thinks I’m going to give her some candy. Instead I pull out a little furry box. I open it and show her the ring I bought for Kara.

Gracie covers her mouth with her hands. “I want one,” she says. “It’s such a pretty little diamond.”

I don’t tell her that it’s not a real diamond. I don’t know if I’ll tell Kara. Instead I tell Gracie that maybe some day, when she’s older, a special boy will come along and give her a diamond too.
“But not until I have a baby first.”

Again, she darts away. I watch her go out into the hall and run into Kara, holding our four-month-old son. Gracie taps Kara on the leg and says, “Don’t eat onions. He thinks they’re gross.”

The baby fusses. I don’t know how long Kara’s been standing there. I don’t know if the tears in her eyes are good or bad. I just get down on my knees and hold up the ring to both of them.

STORY OF THE WEEK: Phantom Food Bear

Hey everybody! Look for a new story every week on Monday. Here's the first installment.

Phantom Food Bear

Dear Reader,

From boyhood, Halloween has always been my favorite. Ever since I can remember, my favorite way to spend Halloween was in a strange neighborhood, typically a well-to-do strange neighborhood. We all know that bigger houses usually means bigger mother loads of candy. Also, rich people so often place a large bowl of candy on the front step with a sign reading, “Please only take one.” We all know that sign really means “please only take one . . . at a time.”

As you may already know, my research on this subject has been well documented in my international bestseller: It’s in the Bag: the Top 100 Neighborhoods to Trick or Treat in America (what the New York Times called “a SWEET tour de force—both yummy and accessible”). It’s in the Bag (now available in 36 languages) was so successful that my publishers asked me to write a follow-up (incidentally, a movie is already in production). I must admit that I was at first leery to accept this request. It wasn’t an issue of money or even doubt that I could capture lightening in a bottle a second time. I just feared that I had hit such a grand slam with the first book that a second walk around the bases would be nothing short of superfluous. You’ve likely heard the saying, “Go big or go home.” Honestly, I just didn’t know how much bigger I could go. Add to that the fact that I didn’t want my success, my golden touch if you will, to make people (other writers) feel badly. But then I heard of a little known village south of the Rainy River, north of the Rio Grande, east of the Pacific, west of the Atlantic, a land of hills and rivers, meadows and woods, called Briarwood, a place with houses as big as mountain ranges. Despite whatever noble reservations I may have had, I knew the story of Briarwood had to be told—no matter the potential cost to my reputation.

I’m sure you’ll be quite shocked to learn (as I was) that for the past thirty-odd years the people of Briarwood have not celebrated Halloween. Children did not don costumes of frivolity at the end of each fall in Briarwood. Children did not nurse hidden stashes of candy all the way to the New Year in Briarwood. In fact, the end of October was the most frightful time of the year in Briarwood. Nobody welcomed it. Can you imagine? Most stupefying of all, these people had never ever ever ever ever (not even once) had a treat. Yes, it’s true. Nevertheless, they left out mammoth stashes of candy every October 31^st.

Briarwood’s people are marvelous, but in terms of mental acuity, they are tottering towers. No other explanation is needed to explain their fear of the meddling, now diabetic, monster called the Phantom Food Bear. What follows is a privileged account from one of Briarwood’s young men, August Pugh, on why Briarwood had no Halloween, but more than that, this story proves the buoyancy of the human spirit despite the floods of lunacy raining from an idiotized public. You will discover August to be a pristine simpleton with a propensity for cute (although vexing) rhymes. His is a swooning tale, published here for the first time ever, by me (two-time finalist for the National Book Award). I’m sure you’ll agree that this follow-up is more than an inexorable successor of It’s in the Bag (available from Oscar A. Webelo Publishers in hardback, paperback, or audio CD). I will now conclude my lovely little foreword with a message from the ever-expanding August Pugh himself:

Turn the page; cast spells of wonder over your brain.

Turn the page; your life will never be near the same.

Warmest regards,

Oscar A. Webelo

Village of Briarwood

Friday, October 13^th, 2007

Wooolff… Woooollfff…Woooollff…Woooooorrrrwwww…

I told my dad, “This year I’m going outside during the week of Halloween.”

He didn’t say a word but the face he made was the ugliest I’d ever seen.

He began to whisper

He began to chant

He began to shake

He began to rant

“You go on

You open our door

Phantom will hear!

And that will be the end of you!

See how you like it

When she chases you down the avenue

Bites you,

Chews you,

Makes a fast-food dinner out of you.”

So I prodded off to school

For the last day before Halloween Break.

To listen to the warnings

That all the imploring teachers would make

It’s the same message every year:

“Please remember to live in fear”

I long for the days when tales of treats weren’t so gory

A time in history called the Age of Sugary Glory

At the county library, clouds of thirty-year-old dust gathered on my hands

I read newspaper accounts of when Halloween was happy and tasted grand:

There were cakes and tarts and truffles divine

Caramels and cocoa and peppermint pie

Warm cider of pineapple and lime

Gummy bears as red as a fine vintage wine

Brownies and mints and crème brulee

Licorice sticks and gum and donuts glazed

Spicy crackers plastered with dips,

Cookies like saucers with chocolate chunks, not chips

Pancakes stacked as deep as you were years old

Sherbets and ice creams in colors so bold

Bananas in cream pies as big as a horse

All their oranges were chocolate of course

As great as it tasted, as good as it was

It wasn’t long, before they stopped because . . .

The Phantom Food Bear

That grizzled mound of flesh and hair

Came upon the scene to steal the cookies and cakes

She stole the candied hams and extra thick milk shakes

Yes, she has a nose for the sugary cache

And if you pause before surrendering your stash

She won’t bat an eye before biting you in half.

Or so I’ve heard . . . my entire life

At school

With smiles of joy and glee

We gathered for assemb-a-ly

We shined as bright as the lights in a planetarium

But Principal O’Doul’s presence made us a sanitarium

He sullenly said “Phantom Food Bear.”

We hung our smiles upside down,

Didn’t whisper another sound

As in years before

He showed us grisly pictures of the Phantom Food Bear

Via the light bulb in his ancient slide projector

“You must know the threat terrorizing Briarwood

So your young minds may find a way to protect her.

This week of Halloween

The night will throw darkness upon the street

The houses will sit still without a beat

Because within this land of Briarwood

A legend phantom rules our neighborhood

Tonight, before you lock yourself into your closets

Turn off your blenders and your faucets

Turn off the television and the phone

Lock yourself in the very walls of your home

But before you do

You must make an offering to Phantom Foo

Give her chocolate balls in candy shells

Give her fruity chews with fragrant smells

Give her candy bars wrapped in foil

Write this note; offer her all your spoils:

To the hairy beast in peace:

Take a candy

Take a chew

Phantom Food Bear

Take it all with you

Just let us live another year!

You must fill your porches with treats in baskets

Or Phantom Foo will place you in her caskets.”

All of the boys sighed

All of the girls cried.

All of our fears multiplied.

We all promised to comply

I wondered why everyone was so transmogrified by Phantom Food Bear

I was tired of living in trepidation, so I raised my hand into the air.

“Yes August,” said Principal O’Doul

“Sir, have you ever even seen Phantom Foo?”

Principal O’Doul’s face burst into the color of fires

His mouth bunched into a fist and his eyes into wires

His bottom lip fell like a load of broken bricks

His hands picked at his hair like a bird at sticks

He pointed his finger; he sucked in a breath of pestilence

Then he spoke; he spoke like the roar of malevolence:

OCCASIONALLY WE SEE HER

THE VAPOR AROUND HER

HER BREATH CATAPAULTED [dog breaths]

THE TONGUE DRIPPIN’ OFF HER

DOTH HANG IN THE AIR

OH YES! MY CHILD!

I’VE SEEN PHANTOM FOOD BEAR! [dog breaths]

His words, so harsh, so terrifying

I didn’t know when I’d stop crying.

So I stopped, dropped, and rolled for home.

At my house

In preparation for the frightful night

My dad did the things he thought were right

He covered the windows and unplugged the lights

He ordered everyone: “Get out of sight!”

My mother and brothers ran to and fro

I was the only one that wouldn’t go.

I stood in the kitchen

Looking around

The thoughts in my head

The only sound:

I thought I’d turn on the vacuum

I thought I’d pour myself a drink

I thought I’d turn up the radio

Until I couldn’t even think.

But instead, I tiptoed to the porch to look at the treats

If they tasted like they smelled, they’d make wonderful eats

I picked one up and held it snug

I sniffed a whiff and with a tug

I pulled apart the wrapper

With my gaping maw opening wide

I prepared to push the treat inside

But then a sound straightened my hairs

Daddy wincing atop the basement stairs

“August, what are you doing?

If you partake, I do suspect

It will have a vampire effect

Once you eat that candy, there’ll be no more August Pugh

Once you eat that candy, you’ll be a Phantom Foo too.

Briarwood would not only be terrorized by Phantom Foo

Briarwood would also be terrorized by August Pugh!”

“Dad, have you ever even seen Phantom Food Bear?”

Daddy’s face drained to the color of a ghost

His mouth crumpled, a dried out piece of toast

His eyes rocked and swayed from the force of an ocean

His hands disappeared in search of magic potion

He pointed his finger; he sucked in a breath of severance

But when he spoke; he spoke with love and reverence:

OCCASIONALLY WE SEE HER

THE VAPOR AROUND HER

HER BREATH CATAPAULTED [dog breaths]

THE TONGUE DRIPPIN’ OFF HER

DOTH HANG IN THE AIR

OH YES! MY CHILD!

I’VE SEEN PHANTOM FOOD BEAR! [dog breaths]

Son, I’d like you to go outside and play

I figure normal kids behave that way

As I watch you go on and pace the floor

I know you figure life should offer something more

Son, I know she could eat us

I know we could die

But if you want to face her

Let’s give it a try.”

So seeing that my dad

Had renewed his confidence

We walked side by side

To claim Phantom recompense

We arrived at the door

And Dad undid the bolt

The weather-swollen door stuck

Stubborn as a shoeless colt

We pushed; we pulled

We yanked; we dueled

The door suddenly popped free

Cold air raced all over him and me

Over our domestic flesh

We slid some coats and threads

When we realized our body’s cold

Was much warmer than our heads

In a frenzy

We searched for an item

To warm the chill upon our skulls

Suddenly, my dad

Shouted from the diaper pail

That he’d found some warming shawls

Those diapers

They was plastic

They was thick

We tied ‘em around our heads lickety-split

We left the door

And walked down the stair

We each had a shotgun

Held up in the air

We walked and we talked.

Foo Bear

Come here!

Foo Bear

Come here!

FOO BEAR

COME HERE!

Suddenly she frightened us from behind a tree [DOG BREATHS]

Those diapers were helpful to my dad and me

We ran

We done take our feet to the road

My friend

Until we had found

A tree in the ground

And we climbed my friend!

We climbed my friend we climbed!

And perched in that tree

We did sit

Dad and me

Contemplating invisibility

We uttered not a single word that night

As Phantom Foo quenched her appetite.

She tumbled and nuzzled our sugary lair

Sashes of bubble gum hung from her hair

Clusters of wrappers polluted the air

Why had we confronted the Phantom Food Bear?

Fuddled with the contentment of her jovial feast

We were consumed by rheumy eyes of the beast

Phantom Foo stammered to the base of our tree

Slowly, she looked up at Dad and me

She stifled our souls with her milk white fangs;

Dad gave my shirt a smoldering tug;

She rattled our heads with her haggard claws;

Dad and I shrank into a blabbering hug.

“What does she want?” I cried.

Phantom Foo pointed her paws at a rust orange car in the street

Afraid for our lives we slid down the tree and up her back seat.

Phantom Foo got in the front and began to drive

I turned to Dad, “We won’t leave this car alive.”

We drove for a few miles at a high velocity

And stopped at a neighborhood full of frivolity

Convicts wearing black and white stripes

Tin Men walking with Frankenstein types

Grown men wearing Hawaiian shirts

Holding little girls in hula skirts

A Sherlock Holmes holding hands

With the Statue of Liberty

A gorilla and chamber maid

Laughing with a dragon lady

Zombie prom queens skipping their feet

Army brats unwrapping some treats

A cowgirl and butterfly knocking on a door

A vampire and magician scaring them poor.

The Grim Reaper and an eye-patched swashbuckler

A snake charmer and a gun-toting mobster

Marines and samurais and rock and roll stars

Rabbis and lady bugs and fortune tellers

Macho biker men and mad scientists

5^th Avenue women with shopping lists

Spartans wielding aluminum foil swords

Tarzan and Jane and Devils with horns

At our car they stopped and stared

I knew they’d soon be scared

Once they saw the frothing Food Bear

They’d cringe and lurch and scramble and jumble

They’d blaze and spill and holler and shuffle

In the rearview mirror, Phantom Foo looked us in the eye

With a sinister look saying, “It’s time to die.”

I tried the door

But it was locked

I tried to scream

But I was stopped

Phantom Foo

Put her paws on her ears

She wiggle-wiggled

And a new head appeared

A man with glasses

And a thick mustache

Held out his hand,

“Hi, I’m Rick Gus Lash.

Rick patted our shoulders, “I think it’s safe to assume

Everyone is going to love your baby costumes.”

He opened our door and welcomed us to his neighborhood

Dad and I rustled and quivered and did what we could

But we couldn’t believe it.

We had only one question to ask:

“Phantom Food Bear

Is nothing more than a mask?”

“No,” Phantom roared,

I’m a candy eating disaster

I will eat candy forever, and forever after.”

Tottering, we left the car and fetched the street

Phantom Foo’s circling friends said, “Trick or Treat.”

I looked to Dad

And Dad looked to me

“I don’t know any tricks

And I’ve never had a treat.”

The neighborhood of people

They all passed out

When they regained consciousness

They began to shout:

You must have a thing that will not only fill your stomach, but your imagination.

You got to have a taste, babies!

You got to have a taste

A taste to excite you

Delight you

And reunite you

With a smile on your face

Try this candy bar

Or this chocolate covered caramel

Try this peppermint gum

Don’t you just love that smell?

Try these tootsie-covered suckers

Or these rainbow-colored Dots

Try a handful of candy corn

Or a mouthful of Red Hots

Take a chew of these gummy brains

Keep a straight face after this lemon head

Swallow some black licorice jelly beans

If you don’t like the black, then try the red

OH!

It all tasted like

Nothing I’d had before

After one taste

I wanted 25 more.

All night long we did eat and eat

Whenever we wanted some more

We smiled and said “Trick or Treat.”

So now that you’ve read this book . . .

PLEASE

Don’t tell Briarwood the truth about the mask

Just say Phantom Foo now has a brother if they ask.

Tell them to double the treats in the baskets,

So we won’t double the need for the caskets.

Yes. Briarwood should no longer only leave treats for Phantom Foo

There’s a new beast with a hunger and my name is August Pugh.

Wooolff… Woooollfff…Woooollff…Woooooorrrrwwww…

Don't Fall Over the Edge

I Need to Put You to Bed!

Blake Tug O' War

An Elk!

The Girls Singing to August

While we waited for the shuttle bus to take us to the Grand Canyon IMAX movie, the girls sang this song to August over and over.

Cubist Self Portrait

A Whole Dollar

As a family, we were looking through the scrapbooks that Marianne has made over the years. The girls loved it, but as I can relate to, the younger kids quickly got bored with the excessive amount of pictures we'd taken of Ashley, our oldest. For example, my parents had a video camera for many years of their marriage. They first got it when Nathan, the oldest, was a baby. When I was 13 or so, they had all those 8mm videos transferred to video. It seemed to take forever for the video place to finish the job. Finally, the job was done and our whole family gathered together to watch the video. There were hours of footage. This would be so fun! the video started with baby Nathan which was natural but good grief, Mom and Dad sure thought Nathan sitting there was important. Nathan on the stairs. Nathan in the high chair. Nathan laughing. It seemed to go on forever.

Then we had to endure forever with Ethan and then Justin and then Austin. by the time we got to me, not everyone was even in the room because they were so bored. Too bad too because the video of me only lasted five minutes and the video was over. The whole thing was over! I demanded an explanation and Mom and Dad just said, "Our camera broke. Sorry."

I promised I would never do this to my kids, but unwittingly, I have.

"When will we look at pictures of me?" said Abby, over and over. Marianne kept tempting her by saying, "I think this book has pictures of you Abby," or I think this book has pictures of you Paige." Paige didn't really care because she thought each picture of Ashley was actually a picture of her. She thought we'd taken so many pictures of her. How nice of us.

Abby wasn't fooled.

When we did get to Abby's pictures, both Marianne and I commented on how we loved her short hair in the pictures. "You should get a haircut," we suggested.

"No," she said and scowled.

"I'll give you a dollar," I said.

"Okay," she said and panted like a dog like she does when she's really excited. No longer were the picture books so important. Abby was going to get a dollar, a whole dollar.

Ashley wondered if she could get a dollar for a haircut too. No, she couldn't. She looks cuter with longer hair and besides, there are pictures of Ashley in every one of the scrapbooks. Sorry.

A Verse for Mindy

Mindy has been sending birthday cards to everyone in the family. This is very impressive. I thought she deserved a card of her own. I even wrote a verse. It only took me four months to remember to send it.

You sent me a card with two cents postage due
Your act of kindness is coming back to you
I got a birthday card that I never would have expected
I thought you also would like a card you hadn’t suspected
So Mindy here it is: a little note from me to you
May you feel extra special on birthday 32.
For every card you send to in-laws, nephews, and nieces
May you be blessed with money, stickers and candy pieces
But if those gifts don’t come and the phone doesn’t ring
Please take comfort in knowing one itty-bitty thing
You never would have gotten this card of verse:
Had you not sent me my birthday card first!