Halloween: The Best Night of the Year

It was horrifying, to say the least.

October 31, 1964.  I was a few weeks shy of turning 10.  What I had to go through I wouldn’t wish on a Georgia Bulldog fan.

I was in fourth grade in Quonset Point, Rhode Island.  For whatever reason (overcrowded classrooms, school bus shortage, threat of an alien invasion) our elementary school was divided into split sessions; one from 7:30 a.m. until 12:30 p.m. and the other from 12:30 p.m. until 5:30 p.m. 

I found myself in the latter session, a godsend if you consider I didn’t have to wake up at the unholy hour of 6:30 a.m.   PLUS I could stay up late to watch my favorite westerns on our 19-inch black and white television (and on a really good night the horizontal hold didn’t have to be adjusted).

But on Halloween Eve 1964 the latter session became my worst nightmare.  You see, ‘Old Yeller’ (we named our school bus) didn’t drop me off in front of my house until slightly after 6:00 p.m.  That meant two things: (1) It was already dark outside and (2) all of the kids attending the early session were already out trick or treating!!!!   

‘Whose idea of a cruel joke is this?’ thought the number one fan of the absolute best holiday of all (Halloween is indeed a holiday; it’s best not to challenge me on this point).  I immediately rushed into my bedroom, threw on my Paladin costume (if you have to ask, don’t) and headed out the front door with one pillowcase firmly in hand and the other, my spare stuck in my back pocket and threaded through my holster (perhaps the name ‘Paladin’ rings a bell now?).  Before the night was over they would both be filled with Baby Ruth’s, candy cigarettes and Double Bubble, a stash of sweetness that would last me for about four or five days once I sorted out the popcorn balls and anything else that didn’t have a factory wrapper.

I love Halloween.  Always have and still do.  Some of the best nights of my life were taking Justin and Josh trick or treating when they were boys.  I remember one year Cindy made Justin an elaborate Big Bird costume out of yellow crepe paper, and I’m here to tell you Justin looked like the real deal.  Everyone else thought so as well, up until when it started raining and his costume started peeling away from his body about as fast as the gutters on the sides of the street were filling up with water. 

I love Halloween.  Always have and still do.  I used to look forward to ‘dress up’ day when I worked at JC Penney, not only to observe the best holiday of all but to get a break from wearing a necktie, if only for that one day each year.  When I lived in Rex, Georgia during the ‘80’s I always wore my Jason/hockey mask for my morning run on Halloween that always drew a lion’s share of second looks as drivers along Highway 42 began their early-morning commute to work.

I love Halloween.  Always have and always will.  Our black lab Magic used to love Halloween as well.  Magic looked forward to all the little boys and girls who would dress up in cute and occasionally scary costumes just so they could stop by our house and pet her for a few minutes on our front porch before they got a handful of candy and disappeared into the night.

I love Halloween.  Always have and always will.  I accompanied my grandson Krischan on his first Halloween.  We visited a couple of houses on our block, his little hand with a vice lock grip on the strap attached to the little plastic pumpkin containing a couple pieces of peanut butter taffy, a Three Musketeers and (a Halloween isn’t complete without) a Baby Ruth when his short and sweet night was over.

This year Halloween seems different.  Justin and Josh are grown.  Krischan is living in Texas.  Magic has been gone now for seven years.  It’s just me, my basket of candy and the hope that the little boys and girls will dress up in cute and occasionally scary costumes so they can stop by my house, yell ‘trick or treat’ and smile when I drop a handful of candy—the kind with the factory wrappers--into their pillowcases and little plastic pumpkins.

But if it’s anything like last year I don’t expect to see much action.  You see, I live in a cul de sac consisting of only 12 houses.  The cul de sac climbs uphill for about a tenth of a mile.  Last year there were only two or three houses with the lights on.  Most of the houses were pitch dark; they may as well have had ‘Do Not Disturb’ signs in the yard.  If I were nine years old and I looked at the hill I would have to walk to get candy at only two or three houses, I might be inclined to move on to greener pastures.  Last year most of the children felt the same way; I only had six trick or treater’s the entire night.

It’s sad what my street has done to my favorite holiday.  If I didn’t know better I might think the owners of the houses with their lights off never dressed up as Paladin, a Power Ranger or whatever the costume of the day was when they were kids.  If I didn’t know better I might think they never trick or treated when they were kids. 

The problem is, I do know better.  And I find it horrifying, to say the least.          

Brain Fartleks

FIVE BOOKS GUARANTEED TO GET YOU OUT OF THE HOUSE…

AND ONE GUARANTEED TO KEEP YOU IN!

Scott Ludwig’s first five books were written with the intentions of educating, motivating and inspiring others to enjoy the sport of running.  Read a chapter or two and you’ll find yourself wanting to get outside and run to find out what you’ve been missing.  The sixth book has two purposes: To keep you entertained and glued to your couch. 

·      Running through My Mind: Confessions of an Every Day Runner

Scott’s (first) autobiography chronicles his running career from 1978 through 2006, and will take you from his first three-mile run in Piedmont Park in 1978 to his 135-run across Death Valley 25 years later…and everything in-between. 

·      A Passion for Running: Portraits of the Everyday Runner

Meet 18 of Scott’s acquaintances—all of them extraordinary runners who will amaze you not only with their ability but their philosophy and insight of the sport as well.

·      A Few Degrees from Hell: The 2003 Badwater Ultramarathon

Follow the paths of 25 courageous individuals as they attempt to run from Badwater, California to the portals of Mount Whitney, a journey that will take them 135 miles through Death Valley while facing temperatures in excess of 130 degrees.

·      In It for the Long Run: A Decade with the Darkside Running Club

A collection of adventures from the first 10 years of arguably the most unique running club in the country.  The club consists of members from half of the 50 states as well as Europe and Canada who have competed at every distance and quite possibly locale possible.

·      Distance Memories: Reflections of a Life on the Run

After 130,000 miles and over 34 years of running every day, Scott’s (second) autobiography is a look back on the good, the bad and yes, even the ugly he has experienced along the way.

·      My Life: Everything but BUY THE BOOK!  Part 1  (Part 2 available Spring 2014)

Scott’s sixth book is a collection of stories—one written on each day of the first six months of 2013, that are guaranteed to make you laugh, warm your heart or simply light your fire.  Once you get start reading this book it will be hard to put it down.  

Coming in 2014:

My Life: Everything but BUY THE BOOK! Part 2

The Edge of Exhaustion: Running Ultras the only Way i Know 

Extremes: Pushing the Limits of Human Endurance (tentative; may be 2015)

HEY--If you've read this far please post a comment.  

I'd love to hear what's on your mind--especially about this Blog!  

THANKS!

Hell Week (Part Two of a Two Part Trilogy)

‘Initiation’ is defined as a rite of passage marking acceptance into a group.  At Phi Tau initiation was known as Hell Week.

‘Hazing’ is the practice of rituals and other activities involving harassment, abuse and/or humiliation used as a way of initiating a person into a group.  At Phi Kappa Tau—as well as every other fraternity at the University of Florida, hazing was prohibited. 

I make the distinction so you’ll understand I was not technically hazed during Hell Week; I was initiated.  Sure, I was harassed, abused and humiliated but when all was said and done it was all in good fun.  Looking back on it now I see that is was indeed a rite of passage.  A passage into Hell, perhaps, but still: A passage.

I can’t remember exactly how long Hell Week lasted.  My best recollection is it consumed the better part of four days.  It’s hard to tell since I was only allowed to sleep six or seven hours (that would be the total for the entire initiation, not per night) and it was impossible to make the distinction between days and nights as we were held captive in the frat house most of the time.  Exceptions?  Attending class and engaging in some of the ‘rituals and other activities’ of Hell Week.

For example, several of the most physically fit brothers in the fraternity took the pledges—all 14 of us for a 10-mile run (after three miles it turned into a walk, three miles later a hike, then two miles later a crawl) around campus.  At midnight, so it didn’t interfere with any of our classes (those brothers; so thoughtful).  All of us were required to stay together; the old ‘a chain is only as strong as its weakest link’ mindset.  We stayed together all right: Eventually there were 12 of us carrying two of our ‘links’ the final two miles.   We barely got back in time for some of us to get to first period (8:00 a.m.).  I was one of the lucky ones; I had a first period class.  The others weren’t so lucky, as they were given various duties to perform around the house.  Abuse?  No; merely a rite of passage.

After three or four days of constant harassment and humiliation (Correction:  I meant to say ‘being teased in good fun’) it was time for the grand finale. 

I don’t recall if I was sworn to secrecy regarding what you’re about to read.

If I was, then everything you’re going to read from this point forward is fiction.

If not, then that explains why I’m breaking out in a cold sweat at this very moment.

I believe it was a Saturday night.  Me and the other 13 pledges were lined up in the large room we used for dance parties following home football games.  Only tonight we wouldn’t be drinking copious amounts of beer and hunch punch, listening to the music of Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts and dancing with our dates.  No, tonight we were going to experience one last round of HAH (‘Hooting and hollering;’ not to be confused with ‘harassment, abuse and humiliation.’  I want to make that perfectly clear.  Gee, my special Sarcasm Font sure has been helpful.) none of us would never forget. 

We were lined up according to size, from smallest to largest.  As I am 5-foot-10 and was the fourth person in line (towards the ‘small’ end of our pledge spectrum) I have to assume we were lined up according to body mass index and not simply by height or weight.  Our first order of business was to complete a cumulative 1,000 sit ups.  ‘Zim,’ the smallest pledge went first.  By the time it was my turn the first three pledges had accounted for slightly more than 200 sit ups.  As I was struggling to complete my 10^th sit up I distinctly remember a brother yelling in my face: ‘Go ahead and quit.  You have 10 others to pick up your slack, you worthless #$% of a $^$%!!’

He didn’t have to tell me twice.  Besides, two of the ‘larger’ pledges were the ones we were forced to carry during our midnight run two or three (who can tell?) nights ago.  (That’s how I choose to remember it since it helps to minimize any residual guilt I may harbor from the incident). 

The rest of the night I didn’t have the luxury of delegation.  All of the pledges had to actively participate in every single exercise demanded of us.  We did push ups, jumping jacks, squad thrusts and several rounds of running in place.  The brothers stayed busy as well, getting directly in our faces and showering us with all the encouragement and spittle we could possibly absorb.  Bonus!  All of us were given new nicknames predicated by our respective ‘performances’ over the past three or four (who can tell?) days.  My favorite (not only because of how clever it is but also because it wasn’t given to me) was ‘Chris who squats to pi**.’         

This went on for two or three hours (who can tell?) when all of a sudden three or four of the fraternity’s board members came barreling through the front door.  They’ were all screaming hysterically. 

What on earth are you doing to these pledges?

This is hazing; you’re jeopardizing the future of our fraternity!

ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR *$&%ING MINDS?

Instantly the brothers rushed all of us pledges into a room on the third floor.  We were told to ‘clean ourselves up’ and sit quietly.  If we were questioned by any of the board members we were to tell them we were simply doing calisthenics.  Loosely translated, we were asked to lie through our teeth.

The board members bought everything we were selling: Hook, line and sinker.

After the 14 of us sold our souls to the devil, we anxiously waited to hear their decision.  It went something like this:

It’s clear how much all of you want to be a brother in Phi Kappa Tau.

Congratulations!  You’re now one of us!

Well before Ashton Kutcher was even born, let alone dreamed of developing the television show Punk’d, all of us were indeed ‘Punk’d.’  With a capital ‘P.’

The whole evening had been a ruse.  All of the pledges bought their act hook, line and sinker.  But in the condition we were all in there was no remorse, no resentment and no anger.  There was only relief.

We were now brothers.  With a keg of beer or two we all celebrated our accomplishment, reminisced about the last three or four (who can tell?) days and laughed about what a relief it was now that Hell Week was behind us.

We also talked about our future in Phi Kappa Tau.

Specifically, how we could make Hell Week a little more appealing to the next class of pledges (Sarcasm Font one last time).       

Rush Week (Part One of a Two Part Trilogy)

In the course of five days during the fall of 1974 I was initiated into a fraternity.   I remember it as if it were yesterday; the way you remember the root canal you had yesterday when you tried eating that piece of peanut brittle today.   But before you can be invited to join a fraternity, you have to experience ‘Rush Week,’ seven days you have to experience to believe.  Having never been to Mardi Gras I can only imagine Rush Week is very similar except maybe you don’t have to find a building to  urinate on in New Orleans. 

I initially went through Rush Week at the University of Florida in September of 1973, a full week before I ever slept in a classroom.  You see, Rush Week was something special…especially for an 18-year old freshman away from home for the first time AND legally allowed to consume alcohol in the state of Florida.  You could say it was something to write home about, but only a fool would even consider writing home to their parents about Rush Week.  Well, a fool and maybe a freshman or two (the two I have in mind never graduated and yes, I imagine you’re just as shocked about that now as I was back then as I’m sitting at my desk writing this using my special Sarcasm Font).  Free alcohol, free meals, plenty of girls from the fraternity’s sister sorority, loud music, games and let’s not forget the free alcohol.  You see, fraternities exist on the revenue generated by a steady flow of pledges throughout the academic school year, and they will go to great lengths to keep their respective traditions alive.  From what I could tell Phi Tau’s tradition was drinking lots of beer (Case in point: a vending machine in the game room where you could buy a beer for 25 cents) and taking pride in not being the first person to pass out at the previous night’s house party, being photographed in all sorts of compromising positions and having your photo plastered on all of the bulletin boards in the house.  That would be the house of the sister sorority, of course.   

When I went through my first Rush Week I had no intention whatsoever of joining a fraternity.  In fact I never used my real name at any of the fraternities I rushed.  I had so many different aliases I was reluctant to return to the same fraternity house twice fearing I might use the wrong name, or should I say that one of the brothers may have been sober and/or coherent enough to realize the ‘Steve’ he met two days ago looked an awful lot like this ‘Taz’ guy he was meeting today.

Fast forward: Fall of 1974.  I broke down and pledged Phi Kappa Tau fraternity, primarily because (a) I enjoyed the company of their brothers and (b) I enjoyed the free beer served at the Rathskellar, our very own on-campus bar, coincidentally and ever-so-conveniently staffed entirely by the brothers of Phi Kappa Tau.  My first hurdle was telling the brothers my real name, as I had gone through several nights of Rush Week with them as Clarence Barrow.  I even embellished my name by telling them my nickname was ‘Clyde,’ as in Clyde Barrow, the infamous partner of Bonnie Parker. 

Literary time out: When the movie Animal House premiered several years later, my entire review of the film consisted of four words: ‘Been there, done that.’  I just wanted to keep things in perspective; we were not choirboys. 

So it came as no surprise when the brothers bestowed upon me my official pledge name: The Counterfeit Clyde (I had two other pledge names as well, both much too inappropriate for this forum).  After a couple of months as a pledge it was time for the moment of truth: Hell Week.  Following are the ground rules handed down to the 14 of us ‘neophytes’ as we entered into the worst week of our short lives:

·      First order of business: Dress Code.  Coats and ties must be worn anytime a pledge leaves the fraternity house.  I imagine my fellow students in class must have thought of me back then what I think of men in their 30’s playing Dungeons and Dragons at the local comic book store today. (I think they're the Cat's Meow, in case you're wondering.)   

 

·      Second order of business:  Communication.  Don’t speak to anyone other than a fraternity brother (who must be the one to initiate the communication) or a member of the university faculty or staff.  Fortunately the only person I even wanted to speak to was Cindy, who had just transferred to the University of Florida after spending her freshman year at a junior college in Jacksonville.  Fortunately she was always the type of student who actually studied, so she had plenty to keep her busy while I was otherwise engaged.  

·      Third order of business:  Love life.  If you have one, put it on hold.  Hopefully it will still be there for you should you survive Hell Week.  One of the brothers (Andy, a junior from Tennessee as big as a barn and sporting a head full of steel wool) asked me for Cindy’s phone number ‘since I wouldn’t have any use for it.’  Without blinking I called out seven numbers, the seven numbers of the local pest control center where I bought a mouse once a week to feed my pet boa constrictor during my freshman year.  If Andy ever called the number, he may have been too embarrassed to confront me about it. 

·      Fourth order of business:  Hygiene.  An allowance of five minutes a day for a shower, shave and ‘all things bathroom.’  You’d be surprised how much you can get done in five minutes, as long as you’re able to go seven days without a bowel movement.    

·      Fifth order of business:  Diet.  An allowance of three meals a day, and no snacks.  I surprised myself with how many yeast rolls, ice cream sandwiches and milk I was able to consume in one sitting.  Of course I had a similar diet for three years of high school so this was actually nothing new.  Forget I even mentioned it.   

·      Sixth order of business:  Obey.  Do whatever a brother asks you to do, no questions asked.  Remember Andy?  He asked me to hold out my hand so he could flick his cigarette ashes into it, reminding me that ‘no ashes better end up on the floor.’  I had no problem with the ashes, at least those without any fire smoldering within.  If I would have had the presence of mind I would have rubbed my hand on his head to find out what type of chemical reaction fire, ash, steel wool and Geri Curl might generate.  But alas, I shook the burning ashes out of my hand and they fell to the floor.  Moments later I fell to the floor as well, as Andy commanded me to ‘drop to the floor and give me 25.’  And yes, back then I could do 25 sit-ups.  I find it irrelevant it took me almost 30 minutes.

To be continued…