Halloween Horror: The Sewing Project that Wouldn't Die!!!

The column below was written quite a few years ago. I note that the Power Rangers are still going strong, so perhaps my advice will be of benefit to those who are still taking their little goblins trick-or-treating. My own progeny no longer trick-or-treat: Instead, they hand out the candy and do their best to terrify those courageous (or foolish) enough to brave our front porch, which is usually adorned with bubbling cauldrons, spooky music, and horrific costumed beasts. (My three sons make MARVELOUS beasts—it’s typecasting.)

Well, Halloween is almost here again: The most terrifying of all holidays. I know you’re all dreading it as much as I. The horror, the sense of hopelessness, the mind-numbing fear…

That’s right. We have to make costumes again.

Close to twenty years ago now, when my oldest son was about eight, he begged me to make him a “Green Ranger” costume. I offered him a roll of aluminum foil and suggested he go as a baked potato, but he wasn’t falling for it. No, it had to be the Green Ranger.

Well, I hadn’t sewed since junior high, but I reluctantly agreed, borrowing a sewing machine from a friend. This was at the beginning of October. I figured I had plenty of time.

I have three useful tips for those about to embark on a sewing project:

1. Start early. Like around Valentine’s Day.

2. Double check to make sure you have everything you need for the project. That

way you’ll only have to run back to Jo Anne’s Fabrics three or four dozen

times for stuff you either forgot or had no idea you needed in the first place.

3. Avoid anything that: a) has to be lined; b) has sleeves, and, most importantly,

c) uses lamé.

The Green Ranger’s shield was made of gold lamé. I had never worked with lamé before. In case you don’t know, lamé frays. Snags. And ravels like a—never mind. I still get the shakes just thinking about lamé. It may be pronounced “lah-MAY,” but there’s a very good reason it’s spelled the way it is.

The pattern had EIGHT pages of instructions. I kid you not. You would have thought the Federal Government was running this project.

Miraculously, the costume was finished on time (barely), and looked great. It ended up costing only three or four times as much as a ready-made costume would have. And he wore it once.

Which settles nicely the question of whether or not Halloween has satanic origins, doesn’t it?

But making the costume was a great character builder, and I learned a lot. The next year, when my son wanted to go as the White Ranger, I handed him a white sweat suit, a piece of poster board and told him to go for it. I did feel a little, nagging twinge of guilt, but because of my experience with the Green Ranger costume, I knew just what to do. I lay down until the twinge went away.

Platitudes and Oysters

Platitudes and Oysters

I have always tried to be a good example to my kids. Really! Honest! I have! But it seems like the most “teachable” moments for them came when I was at my worst. Does my son remember how I slaved for weeks, sewing my fingers to the bone (okay, not literally—that would have been extremely painful, though definitely appropriate for Halloween) making him that Green Ranger costume? Nah. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. But does he remember the time I swallowed a bug when we were walking down to the fireworks on the river one July 4^th? Oh, yeah. I still get renditions of “The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly.” Ah, memories.

Then there are the incidents where my feet of clay took on epic proportions. Like the time I had been up for 48 hours with a sick baby, and had just gotten her to fall asleep, and had just crawled into bed myself, when I heard my son calling for me. I stomped into his room and snarled, “What???!!!” And, he said, in a trembly little voice, “I dreamed a T Rex was chasing me—and it ate me.” Winning me the Lousy Mother of the Year award by a landslide. Of course, I said I was sorry, and I hugged him, and comforted him…but I felt like something you scrape off your shoe before coming inside.

It’s these moments of, shall we say, “less-than-perfection” that seem to stick in my children’s minds forever. In fact, they regularly ask to be told the stories again. “Hey Mom! Tell us about the time…”

I think one of the best of my worsts was the time I had run out of money (I know that never happens to YOU, but it does to me), and I was worried sick about how I was going to feed everybody for the next week and a half, when the next paycheck was due. My daughter, Kathleen, who was eight or so, said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. God will take care of us.”

I muttered something about the Lord not doing a very good job of it, while counting out my $2.46 in change and trying to figure out what to do. I’m pretty sure I was stomping through that store, holding Kathleen’s hand a little too tightly, nursing my worry and feeling pretty ticked off at the Creator at that moment----

Until I reached the bread display. Over it was a huge, hand lettered sign, which read: “BUY ONE. GET FOUR FREE.”

I just started laughing. What else could I do? “Okay, God, I get it,” I said, still chuckling. “Geez, you didn’t have to shout.”

And then, there was the “oysters and platitudes” incident. Definitely a favorite with my kids. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I always make oyster dressing. I am inordinately proud of my oyster dressing. If my oyster dressing could sing, it would sing opera. If it could paint, it would paint the Sistine Chapel. My oyster dressing is a transcendental experience.

Except that there were no oysters to be found. Anywhere. Trust me, I looked. I drove all over St. Louis and St. Charles. There was some sort of shortage; the suppliers hadn’t come through. Everybody had an excuse. But I was very, very frustrated.

My kids tried to make me feel better. “It’s okay, Mom,” they said. “We don’t need oysters to have a good Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving isn’t about oysters. It’s about family, and being thankful for what we have!”

“Don’t give me platitudes!” I snapped. “I want OYSTERS!”

Yep. Mother Theresa’s got nothing on me. I have my priorities straight.

Oddly enough, though, my children seem not only to have survived my lapses in judgment, somehow they have actually absorbed the lessons I taught by being a horrible example.

They have it right—Thanksgiving IS about family, NOT oysters. God DOES take care of us, and has proven it amply, time and again. My children have grown up, and have grown in their faith. They’ve taught me better than I’ve taught them.

But I still cringe when one of them gets that gleam in his eye and says, “Hey, Mom! Remember the oysters and the platitudes?

Duty Calls

It started oh, so many years ago. I was a wife and mother with two young sons—one a newborn, the other a toddler. My husband was in the Army Reserves, but his position was full-time active duty. He was teaching the ROTC students at Ball State University. In many ways, it was one of his most enjoyable assignments, but also very challenging. That summer the young men and women he taught were scheduled to go to summer camp for six weeks—but my husband didn’t have to go with them.

Until suddenly he did. He came home and said that his boss decided that he needed to go to summer camp with the students. He had to pack and leave that evening for Ft. Knox.

Now, I was no stranger to this kind of thing. This happens to Army families all the time. It’s part of the job, like moving every two or three years. Husbands deploy, for months or even years at a time, leaving wives to “hold down the fort.” That does NOT mean that I was particularly happy about it. He went up to pack, and I decided I had two choices: Mope and whine, or do something constructive. So I got out my guitar and my tape recorder, and wrote a song. I recorded it into the cassette recorder (remember those, boys and girls?) and when Chuck came down, lugging his duffel bag, I handed him the tape.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a song I just wrote,” I told him. “Play it while you’re gone. It’s called ‘Duty Calls.’”

Well, that song has been played for a lot of military folks over the years. I’ve been asked to perform it countless times, in small gatherings and larger venues. When we moved to Quantico so Chuck could attend the Marines’ Command and Staff College (he was the first Army Reservist to be accorded this honor), the Commandant’s wife fell in love with the song and had me sing it at every opportunity. One of the last things I did before we left Quantico for Chuck’s new assignment at Ft. Bragg was sing it in the Marine Corps Chapel.

A few months later I got a call from one of the chaplains at Quantico. He wanted permission to use my song as part of his invocation at the annual Marine Corps Ball. I told him to be my guest. I had given him a cassette of the song.

Well, they must have had a heck of a sound system at the Marine Corps Ball that year. I got a call the following Monday from the chaplain. My song had been a big hit. In fact, he told me, the Commandant of the Marine Corps had made a beeline towards him immediately after the invocation, tears streaming down his face, demanding to know where that song had come from. Senator Warner and the ambassador of –I forget which country—also came up to express their appreciation. I even got a letter from the Commandant of the Marine Corps telling me how much he’d loved the song. I thought that was pretty cool, but I guess I didn’t really grasp the significance. Chuck had the letter framed. Apparently the Commandant of the Marine Corps is kind of a big deal. Something about the Joint Chiefs of Staff, I think…

But what means more to me, is the number of people who asked to purchase copies of the song, so they could give them to their sons, their daughters, their husbands, or wives, who were going into harm’s way, or for the families who stayed behind. That is perhaps my proudest achievement. That’s why I wrote the song.

He shines his boots, he cleans his brass, and heads out of the door.

His little sons can’t understand what their daddy’s leaving for.

And there are those who say that there’s no need for him to go.

Still, he packs his bags and leaves, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

He spent a year in Vietnam; he lost some good friends there.

And sometimes the things he’s had to do were hard for him to bear.

But he served his country proudly then; he serves it proudly now.

So he packs his bags and goes, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

When he was young, this nomad’s life was not what he had planned.

And it takes a special kind of woman to know and understand.

The sacrifice we’re making helps to keep our country strong.

So we pack our bags and go, when duty calls.

Duty calls, and it’s freedom’s voice grown quiet.

Duty calls, though most people will deny it.

And if no one heeds the words, will freedom fall?

Not as long as someone answers duty’s call.

No, not as long as one man answers duty’s call.

POST SCRIPT FROM LINDA'S BLOG MANAGER: If you'd like to hear this song, e-mail me at phoenixtalon9@yahoo.com and I'll send it to you as a download.

Names Continued

First of all, let me say thank you to everyone who sent me e-mails about THEIR relatives’ peculiar, odd, or long names! Fascinating stuff! I did notice that the majority of the notorious nomenclature seemed to arise from the South…proving, of course, that Southerners are more creative!

So, to continue the Name Saga, I submit for your perusal my children: Charles Franklin Coffin IV, Donald Tristram Coffin, Kathleen Dionys Coffin, and Seth Robert Coffin, respectively. The eldest is named for his father, but we call him Chip. Tristram’s first name comes from my father, but his middle name, and the name he goes by, comes from the first Coffin to come to America. That was back in 1642. The original Tristram apparently supported the wrong side in the English Civil War, though we’re not entirely sure which side that was. (Clearly, more research is necessary—and a field trip!)

But anyway, it became prudent to pull up stakes and get out of Dodge…or Brixton, as the case may be. He settled first in the town of New Bedford, Massachusetts, where his wife, Dionys, opened her own tavern and made excellent beer.

Dionys, apparently, was quite a character—unusually liberated for the times. She charged seven pence a tankard, whereas most of the tavernkeepers charged five, and still she got the lion’s share of the business in town. Her aggrieved competitors had her brought up on charges for “price gouging.” Yes! They had it even back then! Dionys, however, brought samples into court and PROVED her beer was better than everyone else’s, and so deserved the higher price. And she won! (There are two alternate spellings of “Dionis/Dionys,” just as there are two alternate spellings of “Coffin/Coffyn.” My daughter’s birth certificate says “Dionis,” even though I distinctly remember spelling it “Dionys” for the nurse. Kathleen prefers “Dionys,” so that settles it.)

My youngest son, Seth, is named for Seth Coffin, (not in our direct line, but still a relative) who was a whaling captain in the 1800’s. He also has quite a story. Yes, it probably isn’t true—but as the great writer Robert Heinlein once said, “since when do we let truth stand in the way of a good anecdote?” Seems “Uncle Seth” was out at sea, in pursuit of cetaceans, and one of the ungrateful beasts objected. Strenuously. And proceeded to crush the captain’s leg. Gangrene set in, and Seth had a big problem. Not only was there no doctor on board, and no one on the ship had ever performed an amputation, but Seth himself was the only person present who had even seen an amputation. The legend goes that he called his first mate in and told him, “My leg must come off. You are going to do it. I will tell you how.” The first mate reportedly said, “hell, no,” and Captain Seth held a flensing knife to his throat, and said, “hell, YES.” (Icky historical fact: A flensing knife is one of those big blades which was used to strip the blubber off the whales.) Thus, Uncle Seth directed the amputation of his own leg, without anesthesia. It is said that afterward both men fainted. But the operation must have been a success, because Seth lived well into his 80’s.

The moral of this story is: Don’t mess with those Coffins, they’re a tough crowd.

The Name Game

Names have always held an odd fascination for me. My mother despised her name, which I never fully understood. “Bessie Katherine” was a good, solid southern name, and seems pretty tame compared with that of one of her childhood friends, who was unfortunately saddled with “Highly Devine. Nevertheless, my mother shed the hated “Bessie” at the first opportunity, changed the “Katherine” to “Catherine,” and forever after went by Catherine B. Ferguson, which I considered awfully prosaic—especially considering that her own grandmother had the most, uh, spectacular name I ever heard. It was “Rachel Lucretia Cassandra Josephine Sarah Elizabeth Margaret Katherine Evelyn Dow Turner Dillard Gold. No, really. Seriously. Do you think I could make up something like that? So the story goes, my great great grandparents had 21 children, the majority of whom were wiped out in some pandemic or other, and my great grandmother was named after her dead siblings. Isn’t that charming? And, you may well ask, with such a wealth to choose from, which did she choose to go by?

Lu. They called her Lu.

My mother pored over baby name books, determined that her daughters would not have names that could easily be lampooned or twisted into ugly or insulting nicknames. No sirree, her daughters weren’t going to be made fun of, or likened to a cow, due to an ill considered name choice. After careful consideration, she settled on “Teresa Marie” and “Linda Katherine.” Unfortunately, her “best laid plans” came to naught, as my classmates gleefully locked onto my last name as the target of their barbs and I was known all through school as “Fergie.” Oh, sure, it’s a very trendy moniker now, but back then I hated it.

In a sublime example of cosmic irony, when I married, I traded in “Ferguson” for “Coffin.” Now, that’s a last name with real baggage. It elicits snorts and snickers wherever it goes. I’ve even had people blurt out, “That’s not a real name!” Pizza places have actually hung up on me when I gave them my last name… after they ASKED for it!

The only place where the name Coffin doesn’t lift an eyebrow is the island of Nantucket off the coast of Massachusetts. In the 1640’s, four families settled on the island: The Gardners, the Folgers, the Starbucks, and—the Coffins. (Clearly we should have gone into the coffee business… but I digress.) If you show up on Nantucket and mention your name, a crowd quickly gathers, armed with genealogy charts, wanting to see how you’re related. Half the businesses on Main Street are called “Coffin” this-or-that: Coffin General Store, Coffin Real Estate, the Jared Coffin House. It’s a real hoot—if you’re named Coffin.

The name has a long, illustrious, and probably apocryphal history, tracing back to 1066, when William the Conqueror decided he wanted to own that charming little island across the channel. His knights received land in exchange for their services. (There is still a Coffin estate in England.) Anyway, some of the “Chauvin” ancestors settled in London. The name “Chauvin” became “Coffin,” and one of them must have been quite a woodworker. He became known for crafting small, ornamental jewelry boxes. They called them coffins, of course. Later the family “branched out,” as it were. So, YES, if you were wondering, coffins ARE named after the family.

It’s a tough name to grow up with, despite the history. Fergie simply pales in comparison. I just wanted to say to my kids: Just remember. Coffin is the coolest name on earth—on October 31^st.

Avatar: A Somewhat Belated Review

Okay, let's talk about the movie with the big blue smurfycats. I think I'm the only member of my family who actually bothered to watch it, the others concluding (correctly, alas) that the plot is so derivative, it's not worth the effort. You've all probably read that it's basically the same plot as [insert your favorite movie about big evil countries/corporations/conglomerations raping and pillaging the landscape and/or natives here]. Well, it's true. Then again, plot isn't everything. In fact, depending on who you ask, there are only five basic plots in all of literature. (Some claim there's really only one.) "Avatar" filed the serial numbers off an old, tried-and-true plot, and then dazzled us with special effects. The results were mixed. So, I'd give it an A+ for beauty of animation and cinematography, and a D- on plot, due to utter predictability. Sam Worthington (Sully) and Zoe Saldana (Neytiri) get A's for their voice acting (and brief "real" acting, for Worthington.) Cameron's "world building" skills need work. For instance, I had real problems with "floating mountains." I think the laws of physics apply even on Pandora, folks. Voiding them out by use of some mysterious "vortex" thingy won't cut it, sorry. And whoever decided to call the mysterious mineral "unobtainium" gets the "Lame Name of the Century" award, and should be blackballed from all future cinematic endeavors forever. James Cameron should be marooned on an iceberg in the North Atlantic for three days just for ALLOWING it. HONESTLY. That practically ruined the whole movie for me. Even friends who are able to suspend their disbelief quite easily, had a problem with "unobtainium." I could not have come up with a more idiotic name if I'd sat up three nights running, watching nothing but a Three Stooges marathon interspersed with back-to-back infomercials. While drinking double Espresso and eating Turkish Delight. And Cheetos. Gah. Unobtainium. Gah. I thought Sigourney Weaver was great; and doesn't she look incredible for a woman of 60? But the Marine Colonel/Mercenary was way, WAY too two-dimensional. He was like the bastard offspring of Boris Badenov and Maleficent. And, once more flogging the deceased equine, the plot was pure DancesWithWolvesPocahontasFernGully. I could throw in a few dozen others. Really, they should have called it "Dances with Big Blue Native Smurf Cats on Pandora." And, of course, you know what "Pandora" means, right? Right? My only question is, was James Cameron aware of the awesome mythic roots he was giving his smurfy cats? If so, how could he then proceed to slap the audience in the face with a wet fish called "unobtainium?" Sheer ignorance? Bad advice from his production staff? Off his meds? However, despite my difficulties with floating mountains and all, it was a very pretty movie. And, oh boy, the beasties were spectacular! Great, GREAT beasties! My assessment: Despite it all, worth watching. Watch it for the beasties.

Observations on the Vacuum Cleaner

Someone once said that nature abhors a vacuum.

Well, I have something in common with nature. I can't stand my vacuum, either. That is, I can't stand my vacuum cleaner. This may have something to do with the fact that it's male.

It's not that I'm anti-male, really. But what with my husband and three sons, not to mention my (male) German shepherd, my daughter and I are are already outnumbered. The last thing we need is a male vacuum cleaner, too.

You may not have realized that household appliances have genders, but they do. This particularly applies to vacuum cleaners.

Male vacuum cleaners are sleek and shiny, with lots of chrome. They usually have wheels on the bottom, but these are purely for decoration. The typical male vacuum cleaner is top heavy and falls over when being dragged from room to room or around corners. This is because men are stronger than women, and really don't care whether the vacuum cleaner rolls smoothly or has to be lugged from room to room on its side. After all, they've used to clubbing a moose and dragging it back to the cave, right? After that, a mere 50 pound vacuum cleaner is a piece of cake.

Yes, male vacuum cleaners are heavier, and supposedly sturdier than the female variety. They are sold door-to-door, and never in a discount store. They usually have a sticker price similar to a compact car, and like a car, they have endless options which can be added on. That's because men love gadgets. Male vacuum cleaner salesmen are usually male themselves, and they insist on "the man of the house" being present at the demonstration. Supposedly; this is because the man makes the major buying decisions; but in reality, it's because the salesman knows he can impress they guy with the rug shampoo/floor sander/Cuisinart option.

And then there's the lifetime moneyback guarantee. This sucks men in like a black hole. To a man, a lifetime guarantee says security. It says, I love you enough to buy you the best.

To a woman, where a male vacuum cleaner is concerned, that lifetime guarantee says: LIFE SENTENCE WITHOUT PAROLE.

I haven't said much about the female of the species. Well, it is usually lightweight, efficient, quiet, and can be purchased at any discount store for under $300.00. Invariably, the man will think it looks "cheap" and wonder aloud if it is powerful enough to do the job.

"Geez, it doesn't even have a paint removing attachment!"

But set a male vacuum cleaner in front of the man you love, and he'll get a gleam in his eye similar to the one he gets when he sees a new Corvette. ("Look, honey, real Corinthian leather seats!")

So ladies, if necessary, give in gracefully. Let your husband purchase a male vacuum cleaner and drag it out to his workshop to gather dust (literally). Then bop over to Wal-Mart and get yourself a female. Who knows? Maybe you can breed them, and have little dust busters running all over the house cleaning up your toddler's cookie crumbs.

Well, I can dream, can't I?