Since When Does Halloween Start in Summer?

This column was first published here on September 29, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

I think I missed the memo.


You know, the one saying that Halloween now starts right after Labor Day.

What’s up with that?

I’m know, I know. As a middle-aged woman, I’m risking sounding like a “When I was your age…” crank; but let me say a few things about what Halloween has become.

First, adults of my generation—the Baby Boomers---have improved it and made it worse at the same time.

We improved it when we gave it a little more structure to protect our children from predators. We organized group trick-or-treating and walked with our sons and daughters up and down familiar blocks only. For those who wanted to avoid trick-or-treating altogether, we came up with innovative solutions like the successful “trick or trunk” events you see at some schools.


But we made Halloween worse when we extended it nearly to Labor Day. By the time we actually hit Halloween, almost two months later, Halloween has lost some of its orange glow, at least, and is downright flat at worst.


It’s amazing how some people never understand that “more” isn’t always better. Sometimes, more is just more.


We made Halloween worse when many of the adults among us---particularly men who never seemed to grow up---more or less transformed Halloween from a mildly spooky, cute holiday for little kids into a celebration of homicidal slasher-type gore.


I mean really, think of the Halloween decorations you saw 30, 40, 50 years ago. Colorful cardboard decorations taped to front room windows (or as we say on the Southwest Side, “frunchroom windows”)---images of jack-o-lanterns, black cats, witches on broomsticks, dancing skeletons, maybe a cartoonish Frankenstein, Dracula or Mummy. Fairly tame, yet plenty fun.


But today in 2010? Right on the front lawn, three-dimensional glorifications of decapitations, disembowelments and more---all worked on for days and sometimes weeks with some rather disturbing devotion by men who have apparently watched “Jeepers Creepers” one time too many.


And most amazingly, these types of displays win awards in community contests.


Where do they get the judges from? Cook County Jail?


Is it possible to have a Halloween that doesn’t bleed, vomit or pledge allegiance to the Prince of Darkness? I wonder.


You know, it would be tempting to respond to this hijacking of Halloween by waving the white flag of surrender, calling it a day, putting up no decorations, and declining to answer the door for trick-or-treaters---which I’m a little embarrassed to admit, my husband and I did last year.

But this year, we’re fighting back with a seven-point plan for a kinder, gentler holiday.

1. We will decorate our house on October 24, exactly one week before Halloween, with decorations that are mildly spooky but definitely kid friendly.
   
2. We will purchase pumpkins, carve them into smiling jack-o-lanterns, put candles in them and place them on our front steps.
   
3. We will roast the pumpkin seeds and eat them.


4. We will make popcorn balls and carmel apples.


5. We will have plenty of candy on hand, smile at everyone who comes to our door, and save the very best candy for the youngest trick-or-treaters.


6. After dusk, we will take our old VHS copy “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and watch it on our TV.


7. I will take plenty of pictures and post them at citymomchicago.blogspot.com.

And at the end of the night, if my husband invites me to a pumpkin patch to await the arrival of the Great Pumpkin, I may even join him---especially if he is carrying a picnic basket with cheese, crackers and a bottle of pinot grigio.

Have a great week.

I know I will...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

My Life With a Rooster

This column was first published here on September 22, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

While I certainly am a City Mom, no one will ever, ever call me Morning Mom.

To me, A.M. means Allergic to Morning.

And it means do not wake me up unless absolutely necessary. Do not talk to me, do not ask me questions. I can’t guarantee that you’ll get a meaningful answer, or any answer at all.

Trouble is, I married a major morning man.

While my husband likes to get his zzz’s as much as anyone, once his feet hit the floor in the morning, he’s on the move like a sports car going from zero to 60.

Once my feet hit the floor in the morning, I’m on the move, too—but more like an extra in “Zombie Island”---at least until I have a cup of coffee.

Years ago we were discussing our different outlooks on the morning. He said, “My morning motto is ‘Wake up early and attack at dawn’ and yours is ‘If you wake me up before dawn, I will attack you.’”

Accurate.

But I’m not complaining too much. For years, the upside of him being a morning person is that he would usually take the lead on getting our daughters rousted out of bed and ready for school. Meaning a little more sleep for the City Mom.

But really, must my husband sing at sunrise? Was he a rooster in a previous life?

That’s right. Singing.

Not humming a happy tune, but belting out snippets from Broadway musicals.

And not singing well. By his own admission, he sings like most men, like “Fred Flintstone in the shower,” as he says.

His favorite songs are from “Oklahoma!”---and I can almost tell what he’s doing by what he’s singing.

If he’s singing “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, I got a beautiful feelin’ everything’s goin’ my way,” he’s just started his day.

If he’s singing “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow,” he’s looking out our kitchen window at our tiny patch of back yard grass. (And thoroughly annoying his sleepyhead daughters in the adjacent bedroom---who like their mother have their pillows pulled over their heads in response.)

If he’s singing “Poor Jud is dead, poor Jud Fry is dead,” he’s in the bathroom.

If he’s singing “Everything’s up to date in Kansas City, they’ve gone about as fer as they could go,” he’s making breakfast and packing lunches.

If he’s singing “Territory folks should stick together, Territory folks should all be pals, cowboys dance with farmers’ daughters, farmers dance with the ranchers' gals,” he’s feeding (and frightening and confusing) the dog and the cat.

If he’s singing “People will say we’re in love,” he’s standing next to the bed trying to wake me up.

At least that’s a nice, gentle song---better than mornings when he’s on a Busby Berkeley kick and trying to get me out of bed by singing, “I’m young and healthy, so let’s be booold; in a year or two or three, maybe we will be too old…”

Sheesh.

But I can’t complain, because one truly good thing about my husband belting out show tunes is that his love of song has rubbed off on our daughters----both of whom sing beautifully and have performed in concerts and in plays repeatedly over the years.

It’s not every day that a rooster inspires nightingales.

See you next week…

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at http://www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com/

Have a Healthy Holiday. Now This Won't Hurt a Bit...

This column was first published here on September 15, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

“Men, it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”

“Have you had your prostate checked?”

Believe me, when I heard that on the radio back in early February, I laughed out loud. I thought it was a joke.

But it wasn’t. It was the beginning of an actual ad for a local urologist.

Then a few days later, I saw a poster in a library, noting that February 14 is National Condom Day, according to the American Social Health Association.

Funny. I recall Valentine’s Day as a day to express the love that’s in your heart, not the lust in your loins.

And on February 14, I want V.D. to stand for Valentine’s Day, not Venereal Disease.

Look, I understand that those who work for a healthier world use their own observances as a tool. For example, October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Fair enough.

And like most people, I like health promotion but dislike health policing.

So must the health police take over our gentle holidays?

Fast forward to May of 2010. Mother’s Day is approaching.

I think it’s reasonable to expect that I (and the 83 million other mothers in the U.S.) have one day---just one day---where we are feted for all that we mothers do. And nothing else. Just one day out of 365, right?

But apparently the health police don’t see it that way. As we approached Mother’s Day this year, this City Mom and the 83 million other moms across the nation were poked and prodded with message after message reminding us of our mortality.

** “Mother’s Day is almost here. To honor Mother's Day, it's a good time to schedule a mammogram.”

** “Mother’s Day is just around the corner. In 2010 alone, more than 11,000 American women are expected to be diagnosed with cervical cancer. The number of women expected to die from this illness is 4,070. Schedule your annual gynecological appointment.”

** “Mother’s Day is coming up. Stress at work can have an impact on your safety and health.”

** “With Mother’s Day near, keep in mind that too much sodium can increase your risk of high blood pressure, heart attacks and stroke.”

** “Mom, please know that Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) can not only leave minor cuts, scratches, bruises, and welts, but can also cause more serious and lasting disabilities, such as broken bones, internal bleeding, and head trauma. Women who experience IPV are more likely to smoke, abuse alcohol, use drugs, and engage in risky sexual behavior. If you or anyone you know is experiencing IPV, please get help.”

All five examples are real. Seriously, look them up on the Internet.

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) even got into the act, offering e-cards that people can send to their mothers. The cards essentially say, thanks mom for all you do. Now when are you going to start taking care of yourself?

The CDC even offers this nugget of advice to moms: “Try waking up an extra 10-15 minutes earlier in the morning for a brisk walk outside…”

I have a better idea, CDC. How about our husbands and kids wake up an extra 10-15 minutes earlier for a brisk walk to the kitchen to make mom breakfast in bed?

But I am sure that nothing I say will stop the health police---partly because they will never understand that they have crossed the line from helpful to annoying. They remind me of a friend who, every time I saw her, had a “helpful” tip on how I could lose five pounds or wear more fashionable clothing.

She’s not my friend anymore.

# # #

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at http://www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com/

Her Husband, His Wife, Their Sunset

This column was first published here on September 8, 2010.
Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,
in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

~ ~ ~

On Tuesday afternoon, the City Hall press corps saw a mayor ending his larger-than-life political career.

But beyond the stoic front, just past the “There has been no greater privilege or honor than serving as your mayor” lines you’d expect from a departing politician, I saw something different.

I saw a husband. And a wife.

As Richard Michael Daley delivered his remarks for the something-thousandth time from the lectern in the fifth floor press room, he seemed to avoid looking at his wife Maggie, because I suspect he might have shed some tears if he had.

But watch the tape of his five minutes’ worth of remarks, and you’ll sense the connection between a husband and the wife he loves so very dearly.

And Maggie Daley, elegant and beautiful as always---ever the classy Corbett girl no matter her age---stood there in support. Not behind her husband, like most political wives who serve as campaign wallpaper, but at his side. At his right hand, specifically.

And when her husband hit an especially difficult and emotional part of his speech and wavered, there was Maggie’s hand, moving into the corner of the camera shot, holding and comforting his.

It was a tender irony, indeed. Maggie was the only person in the room using a crutch; yet she was the one providing support.

If you’re a man, you probably missed the irony. If you’re a wife and a mother, you saw it, sensed it, and smiled a gentle smile of recognition.

And if you’re a man, you may have missed the significance of the look on Maggie Daley’s face.

But this wife and mother saw it. The look on her face was no garden-variety, Maggie Daley at a ribbon cutting or Gallery 37 smile. This was a full, radiant smile from the soul---the smile of a woman in love with her husband, and nearly bursting with happiness that at long last, she will have her time with her husband, children and grandchildren.

She looked like a woman coming out of the desert after 40 years---make that 38 in her case---and gazing upon cool, clear drinking water.

Not that she ever complained about her role as a political wife. If there is one thing that people agree about in regards to Daley---Maggie, that is---it is that she earned the universal acclaim she has received as Chicago’s First Lady.

But when the mayor leaned toward the microphone and said, “Simply put, it’s time,” I did not hear his voice. I heard Maggie’s.

Rest assured that before he said it publicly, she said it to him countless times in recent years---sometimes a gentle whisper, sometimes perhaps an exasperated exclamation, most times somewhere in between.

If you’re a wife, you know what I mean.

Men. Need I say more?

History will judge Richard M. Daley’s tenure as mayor. That is as it should be. Let the historians do their job.

But hopefully, just for this moment, all of us can put politics aside and simply extend our thoughts, prayers and best wishes to a husband and wife as they hold each other’s hands and walk into the sunset together.

# # #

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.
Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com

A City Girl and a City Mom

This column was first published here on September 1, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.
~ ~ ~

I've always been a city girl.

From the day I was born on Chicago's South Side, at St. Bernard Hospital at the very start of Labor Day Weekend, 19....

OK, let's skip the year, shall we?

A city girl on the day I came home to settle in with my mother, father and Irish-twin sister (she is only about 50 weeks older than I) in a second-floor apartment near 55th and Laflin, right above my maternal grandparents.

...on the day I was baptized at St. Basil Church at 55th and Wood ("on the Boulevard," as we used to say).

...through the years I grew up in a bungalow in the Gage Park neighborhood and attended St. Clare of Montefalco School and Lourdes High School.

...through the times as a Girl Scout at Camp Juniper Knoll in the Wisconsin woods, when all I wanted to do was escape from the biting gnats, crawling bugs, slithering snakes and get back to my bed in my room in my house in my city.

Yep, I'm a city girl.

I remember the tiny little grocery stores that used to dot city blocks. I remember when bowling alleys, movie theaters and taverns were everywhere. I know what it is to hear adults say, "Go play in the alley," and I know what a just-emptied 55-gallon drum sounds like when a Streets and San worker drops it on the pavement and rolls it back into place by the back gate.

I know what a Chicago precinct captain looks and sounds like. Our door was visited regularly by a precinct worker from the 14th Ward Regular Democratic Organization. That always gave my sisters and me a chuckle because this guy, who would talk to my mother as if they were old pals from the first grade, repeatedly addressed her as Mary.

Trouble is, everyone else on the planet called her Eileen.

OK, let's fast forward a bit.

I became a city mom in 1990, when I carried when my first child through nine months and two weeks of pregnancy, culminating in about 14 hours of labor and delivery in May of 1991.

(And to those several men over the years who have tried to correct me by pointing out that I didn't become a mom until my daughter was born, I say: if you think pregnancy doesn't count, YOU carry a baby for nine months and then we'll talk...)

Like many thousands of city moms and dads, my husband and I carefully considered public schools but wound up sending our two daughters to Catholic grade schools and high schools. And I'll address that in the months to come.

Yep, I'm a city mom. And very Chicago. An Irish girl who married a Bohemian. Who loves a cup of tea with warm soda bread and butter---but also deep dish pizza, a sweet strawberry kolacky or paczki, a good steak taco, chicken chop suey and some sweet potato pie. Just not all at once.

Who every now and then enjoys a tumbler of Bailey's, a sip of Guinness, and even on rare occasion "a wee bit of the creature," as Father Fitzgibbon said to Father O'Malley in "Going My Way."

Very Chicago. Like most Chicagoans, I have relatives and friends who are cops, firefighters, paramedics, and other city workers. Also nurses, teachers, lawyers, a judge, engineers, and much more. My dad was an assistant Cook County state's attorney, over four decades ago, when the mayor's middle initial was J.

And me? Well, in addition to being a city mom, I am a longtime journalist. A newspaper reporter and editor for nearly 25 years, in both city and suburbs. Covered everything from racial conflict to the local angles of the terrorist attacks of September 11, to the sweetest and most light-hearted features that would make the hardest heart soften and reaffirm faith in humanity.

So why the long hello?

Three reasons.

First, to introduce myself as we get to know each other in 2010, 2011 and beyond.

Second, to let you know that while I describe myself first as a city mom (because I am truly a city girl and because, as all good parents know, our lives are defined in great measure by our children), this is definitely not a "mom" column in the stereotypical sense. That is to say, I can and definitely will talk about everything---from the lighter side of parenting to political and social issues affecting all of us in the city we call home.

That's the "city" part of this City Mom column.

Third, to get all the potential "conflict of interest" stuff out of the way. We journalists have a way of fretting ourselves into knots over that issue. And that's nonsense. Really, as long as you play it straight and fair with people, you're going to be OK, no matter what your husband, sister, brother or uncle does for a living.

See you soon...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com