Circa age three, my Great Grandmother Lucille taught me this rhyme and how to pump my legs to use our backyard swingset. This Thanksgiving offered a full-circle moment to that earliest memory.
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I circled the packed YMCA parking lot. My anxious pre-yoga pep talk did not go well: “I’m not going to get a spot and I’ll be late for class. There might not be room for me. Even if there is, I don’t want to be that person.”
I took a deep breath and kept circling.
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After family staycations at the Embassy Suites, my twin sister and I thought “happy hour” was actually called “happy time”. Often, we’d take these trips in the fall. Rachel, my brother Joshua and I would swim for hours. We’d leave the warm indoor pool only to procure Shirley Temple and popcorn refills. We’d sloth on the walls of the pool, shoveling buttery goodness into our mouths. As leaves crunch and the weather crisps, it’s easy to get nostalgic.
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Outside of Austin, about an hour away in Smithville, on a lonely, remote road that leads to an even more lonely and remote plot of land, there is a magical place called Scream Hollow Wicked Halloween Park. Like the fairy land of Celtic lore that reveals itself at twilight, Scream Hollow is only open to visitors during the most magical month of all. October.
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The radio host couldn’t believe it. “Wait. So you JUST signed your whole family up for the 5k and didn’t tell them?”
His co-host responded, “Yeah, this way, the morning is planned. We will all get up and it will be a done deal. There isn’t an out. We earn the turkey.”
While this woman seemed certain a forced holiday run was a good idea, I was with the other host as he asked, “What if they don’t want to go? Are you sure this is a good surprise?”
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In Costco, I spotted a dad on bended knee. He held up two beautiful costume options: “Do you want to be a mermaid or Wonder Woman?”
His daughter, probably 4 years old, stared at her options. Meanwhile, the son’s Captain America gear was already in the cart.
“I’ll be both,” said the daughter.
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From behind the wrapping paper doorway, I saw the glow of the Christmas tree lights and I knew magic awaited. My parents, in their genius, “wrapped us kids in” so we would not peak for Santa or packages until it was time. We’d sit by the paper like meowing, hungry cats, pretty much pawing for the unveil. When it was time, we’d burst through the paper like linebackers at the big game. BAAM!
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My brother’s costume idea confirmed it: Joshua was a kid genius. He was probably ten and declared, “I’ll dress up as Frankenstein and you girls can take turns being Igor.” According to him, we would have the opportunity to push Frankenstein door-to-door in the wagon. My twin Rachel and I were actually excited about this idea. Some adult must have stepped in...
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At Christmas, do you ever wonder how the old toys feel about their replacements? The playroom buzzes on Christmas Eve in Jim Henson’s film, The Christmas Toy (a.k.a. Toy Story of the 80’s). All the characters are excited about the promise of new additions to their toy tribe, all except Rugby, last year’s star gift.
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