Integrity is the Best Defense: Defending myself from the unprincipled

A recent experience reminded me of one I had in high school. In 1986, I graduated with honors, meaning I was in the top 10 percent of my class. Being active in youth leadership as a student senator and an elected state officer for the national chapter of HERO (home economics related occupations), and public speaking were among the things for which I was known. One of the scholarships I received was from the Rotary Club of Dallas, having spoken at their monthly meetings at the Texas State Fairgrounds numerous times. It was an honor, educational, and much fun.

In my senior year, my girlfriend wanted in one of my classes for the second semester, but it was full. I guess this upset her because unbeknownst to me, her father called the school in hopes of advocating that she be placed in my class. So out of the blue one day, I was called into the principal's office. 

 

As a kid I was Batman: full on integrity

As a student senator active as a youth leader on a state and national level representing Skyline High School, which at the time—in the mid 80s—was the 3rd largest high school in the US, I knew the principal well. After all, I was an honor student. I also knew Principal Golden from serving on a committee to help him transition from the very popular Frank Guzick. Guzick was so beloved he had a Dallas area school named after him.

Very quickly I realized that this wasn't the ordinary visit to the offices of Skyline High School. Apparently Melany's father had NOT called Mr. Golden in hopes of pushing her into my class. Unsure who had, they wanted to speak to me. Dr. Tuckey, the disciplinary vice-principal was in the office, as was the department head, and friend of mine, Mrs. Blair. It was Dr. Tuckey's assessment that I had made the call. Wait. What? 

 

That's me in the center of the left page, editor in chief of 

"For Senior's Only" school magazine. 

Mr. Golden is just above me, and Mr. Guzick at top 2nd from left.

My fellow student senators at bottom. 

After a few questions I learned that someone posing as Melanie's father called and spoke to Mr. Golden personally. Mr. Golden knew me…quite well. I asked Mr. G if he A: really believed I could get away with sounding like anyone but me, let alone her father, and B: in knowing me, he really thought I could not only do something like that, but think I could get away with it. 

Mr. Golden did NOT think the man posing as Mr. Melaniedad sounded like me, nor did he think I would do something of the sort. Mrs. Blair was in the same court and did not believe in the slightest that I would try something like that. She then brought to our attention that at the time the call was made, I was in class. Dr. Tuckey, not knowing me as well, swore it was me, even though he never spoke to the faux father who made the call. 

 

Jedi Knight

Later, while in class, Mrs. Blair told me a story of her being blamed for something she never did. As far as she knew, she was still thought of as being responsible. It's something she can live with because she knows the truth. She believed me, and understood my disappointment in Dr. Tuckey placing blame at my feet. She assured me that keeping my integrity in tact meant that those who really matter believed Dr. T was off base, Mrs. B. encouraged me to keep my head high and let it slide off my back like water on a duck. Being unfamiliar with waterfowl and certain phrases, I had to look that up. But I would always be guilty in the doctor's mind. 

 Nearly forty years later I was visiting with a friend I used to work with at a haunted house in Houston. I told him that I felt that I've fallen out of popularity because I no longer worked there. He said something that confused me; something about the letter I wrote to the corporate offices of 13th Floor anonymously. Wait. What? Not only did I not write a letter to corporate, I never wrote any letter to the haunt at all. For what reason? Smoking back stage.

He recanted how the company director read this letter to the actors one night after the show at a pizza place. She attributed it to me because it was sent snail mail, which is apparently old-fashioned, as I'm known to be; was written well, which is my style; and was about a topic I had once brought up to her in a complaint. Never resolved, the following year, I simply stayed away from the other actors to avoid the smoke. Not a big deal.

I was more than shocked. First of all, the unprofessionalism of a manager reading out loud a letter sent to corporate, anonymously or not, then handed down to the Houston division. And then assigning guilt based on gut-feeling, without investigation. I was vocal about my issues with backstage smoking and was not alone in the complaints. It would be easy to craft a letter in the style of my speaking, and my blog is not exactly private, with over 35,000 views. Believe me, were I to write a letter in hopes of keeping it anonymous, it would be written in the style of someone other than myself. Doy!

 

I often had friends over

So upset over this accusation and the method in which it was handled in front of my friends, I dealt with it differently than in high school. To defend myself I called her out in a letter that, as she had done, I shared with the actors. The haunted house in Houston was never lacking for drama. There were actors with an ego the size of Alaska who thought they ran the place. Actually, they sort of do...telling others who displease them that they shouldn't bother to show up for work.

One of these ego-cretins once came to me and asked to speak in private. I followed him and he said, “This is coming from (our director), but you can't advertise your party here.”  What displeased him was leaving fliers advertising my Halloween party. And now he was telling me I couldn't do so, as had been done by others. This guy hated me. He tore down signs I posted in the break area selling contact lenses I couldn't wear. He once accused me of “stealing” the new hires when inviting them to join a group of us another place from where he wanted to go.

My immediate response to this mental midget was, “If this is coming from (director), have (director) tell me," and I walked away. Our director never said a thing and my fliers remained (It was a great party, by the way). The third time he asked me to step aside so he could speak to me—yes, third—I told him that I was done being pulled aside by him. If he had something to tell me, he could do so in front of everyone present. This time it was to complain that was planning a party the same night he wanted one. Tough shit, Sherlock. I announced first.

 

Just look at the spread

The Halloween Party was off the hook

My point is, this guy hated me enough that I could see him trying to set me up with this anonymous letter. The funniest thing is that he had no idea that I was only planning to work 1 night that season because I was returning to my full-time job. Such energy was wasted trying to set me up when I wasn't even going to work that season. And (director) fell for it, regardless of who wrote the letter.

After posting my open letter to her defending myself, I received a threat from the halfwit himself. Asshole, I replied, you are not in charge of me. Not now and not then. You can't tell me what I can and can't write or what I can and cannot say in trying to defend myself. Next I heard from (director) who wanted me to know she didn't ask him to threaten me. She may have been daft enough to read a letter falsely attributed to me, but not so much so as to sick the dimwit on me. Note taken.

 It took a year, but she finally spoke to me about this letter and I took the opportunity to fill her in a few of the things the moron did while I was employed by her, including his various verbal threats, each of which I laughed at him and walked away. His hatred of me grew each time. If I felt no need to write her a letter about all that, I certainly had no need to write a letter about backstage smoking. I was never, nor am I now, scared of that simpleton.

But like Dr. Tuckey in 1985, she stood by her guns saying she knew I wrote the letters (yes, plural). So now to find I wrote 2 letters. Just how many did I write?, I asked. But don't bother. As much as I'd love to hear what the letters said, I know I didn't write them, regardless of the style in which they were written or the topics covered.

A few years ago I learned that Mrs. Blair had passed away. I have no idea if Dr. Tuckey is alive, but I couldn't help but wonder if that 12-sandwich eating man still thinks I made that call to Principal Golden. Not only did I really admire Mrs. Blair, she now knows the truth about the call to Principal G. I didn't make the call. I didn't write the letters. End of story.

 As stated in my defense, I own my thoughts and don't hide behind fear. The backstage smoking pales in comparison to the backstabbing and yet I never mentioned it. The saddest thing about being drug back into their drama is that it has stained the joy I had in working there for two seasons.

What I love most is when I asked my friend why I was just hearing about this over a year after it happened. He said no one from our group of friends really thought I wrote the letter. It's like Mrs. Blair said…if you have good integrity, if you live life right, no one who really knows you or counts will believe shit like making calls to a man you know, pretending to be your girlfriend's father, or writing anonymous letters. 

 

No fear

 

 

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Pumpkin Guts

I got caught. When mentioning the pleasure, their shock and awe seemed to indicate, yet again, that I am not among those that most people would consider “normal.” This is something I embrace. Who wants to be normal? Doesn’t everyone enjoy something other than vanilla ice cream? Normal is boring. Flying a freak flag keeps people in wonder. But how odd was I? In a world of vanilla ice cream, am I rocky road weird or bubble gum ice cream weird?

Party hopping on Halloween

While my sister-in-law went into the Pengy Wiggly grocery store (not it’s real name, but it has potential) to pay, I remained out front with my brother and his two boys to pick out 4 pumpkins to carve for their Halloween party the following night. Halloween, Halloween parties, and holidays with the family are some of my favorites. I was so excited to be picking out pumpkins with the family. Much more so than my two young nephews. They showed little interest in anything Halloween. Oh, they had a great time dragging the family out for new costumes the previous night (along with half of Austin). The excitement died ten minutes later. A bit of fervor returned for a minute as we drove to the Pengy Wiggly on our pumpkin run. But only a minute. As soon they found a perfect pumpkin among the many in the pavement pumpkin patch the short attention span of a child kicked in.

Once back in the car, I expressed my anticipation to carve our perfect pumpkins. “Maybe we could save the seeds and roast them like Mom used to do.” That fell on deaf ears as the conversation had left pumpkins and changed to cereal. Or pop music. Honestly, I have no idea what they were talking about. When did Special K and Corn Pops combine to make K-Pop? What is a tent to see on? Little techa? Is BTS some sort of medical ailment?

Brook poses for a face possibility

While the family winced at the thought of cleaning out the insides, I admitted that this part of the Jack-O-Lantern process is a bit untidy. And that’s when I turned their stomachs with what I thought was an innocent admission. “It is messy,” I admitted, “but I sure love the smell.” You would have thought I had professed to loving the odor of rotting fish, from the reactions thrown my way. OK, Penguin. Maybe tone down the adoration for the olfactory properties of pumpkin guts.

Jason's master skills at work

 

 

 

 

 

 

Halloween night

The moment of awkwardness over, I watched like a child with a gleam in the eye as my brother and his wife carved faces into the pumpkins—throwing the seeds and sinewy orange innards straight into the trash. I guess there won’t be any seed roasting this time. Sorry, Mom.

The hunt for candles lasted far too long, but finally the Jacks were alight, the room darkened, and we stood in awe judging the efforts and smiling in the awesomeness of freshly disemboweled pumpkins: a sacrifice to the gods of my favorite holiday of the year. And for that whole minute, my nephews were interested in Halloween once more.

The lights came up abruptly, the candles extinguished and the kitchen returned to it’s prior glory—or as much glory as possible when hosting a family with 2 young kids, 3 cats, a dog and Uncle Penguin. With the family soon in other areas of the house, this was my chance. I was all alone. Without fear of judgment I pulled one of the Jack-o-lanterns forward, removed the lid, pressed my chin against the pumpkin skin, and inhaled.

Sweet Great Pumpkin, what a pleasure. Perhaps the most quintessential aroma of the holiday. Candy corn is too faint. Cinnamon-apple is overrated. Pumpkin spice may be more popular, but arguably, for someone who grew up in the 70s with an awesome mother embracing this holiday with the very childlike enthusiasm I inherited, there is something better. Carving the perfect gourd, gutting it with your bare hands, and smelling freshly slaughtered pumpkin is the pinnacle aroma of Halloween. 

The sweet aroma

Having been quite a few years since I last carved a pumpkin, this inhalation was severely delinquent. It was deep, long, and repeated several times. I was lost for a moment. Were it large enough, I could have jumped into that pumpkin for a sticky, stringy bath—for they failed to remove all of the gourd intestine. Where was that trash can full of seeds and guts?

Basically, the reactions I got

And that’s when it happened. I got caught. The entire family walked in on me. I was post inhale, holding the aroma until my lungs, starved for air, forced the nostalgic pumpkin-scented carbon dioxide out for life-giving oxygen. While their stomachs churned and a few unflattering words came forth, I owned it. However, being a gracious guest in their home, I gently returned Jack’s lid, give it a kiss, and slid it back into the corner. I could hear the eyes rolling and heads shaking behind me. 

 

 

My younger nephew with his costume for school

Peanut butter Jelly party guests- easy peasy

 

The Barbie Dolls in original packaging

 I’m not sure where Mom went wrong with my brother. He apparently hasn’t inherited the fondness for pumpkins she passed to me. That is not to say she didn’t instill in him some appreciation of Halloween’s best aspects. He and his wife are well known for coordinating fantastic costumes and their Halloween party that weekend was a monster hit. His children, on the other hand, might be adopted. They are nowhere near as excited about dressing up for Halloween. My older nephew didn’t even wear a costume to school the Friday before Halloween, unlike his brother. And on Halloween evening, neither of them wore a costume to go trick-or-treating, although between the two of them they must have about a dozen costume options. As for me, I brought three. I was like Stevie Nicks: ready for multiple wardrobe changes.

Spending time outside with costumed friends

The kids get into the spirit

The jack-o-lanterns looked amazing as they sat sentry on the front steps all aglow. The party food was great and the ‘boo’ze was flowing. Almost all of the guests were dressed to the nines. My sister-in-law was Harley Quin and my brother was the Joker. I was an Egyptian Pharaoh for the party (and on Halloween I wore a costume reminiscent of ancient China). A few couples brought their costumed kids and that is what finally inspired my nephews to run upstairs and change. They soon returned as Slender Man and my younger nephew being carried by an inflatable alien. 

Trick-or-treating in the neighborhood is a huge event.

Ernie and Bert with rubber ducky

It was the perfect Halloween holiday: costumes, excited kids, and a street lined with trick-or-treators of all ages. I loved party hopping to the tony homes of my family’s friends with clever spider cupcakes, ghost-shaped snacks and adult beverages with fun and scary names. Hmm. Should I have a ‘soul taker’ or a ‘grim reaper?’ Maybe a witch’s brew would go best with guest guts (pasta with red sauce). 

But best of all was the sweet, nostalgic scent of freshly hollowed pumpkins—oh, that glorious fragrance.

 

Harley, Joker, Pharaoh and some kid (my older nephew)

 

My brother and I hamming it up in Austin

Mom made sure I had fun at Halloween from a very young age. I'm Batman!

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Texas Whitecaps

 

Halloween silliness with a buddy

Houston’s 2^nd Fall came just in time for 2021’s Halloween. If you’re not familiar with Houston, you may be wondering what 2^nd Fall is. It’s one of the eight or so Autumn weather patterns that Houston gets in a season. There are usually a few summers thrown in between, just to keep the plants guessing. And if you’re a plant, you really understand Houston’s five Springs—also interspersed with a few summers and winters. I loved living in Maryland in the late 90s, where I finally got to experience life with four full seasons. We only get two seasons in Texas: hot and hotter. We do get winter in all honesty. It lasts about two weeks. But not in a row.

Of course Texas is as large as the ego of a spoiled heiress. The weather can vary greatly in this large state: from our desert southwest to the frigid winter plains of the Panhandle, down to the flat tabletop we call the valley, which is pretty much summer all year long (at least to those native to the wintry arctic tundra that the Panhandle gets from time to time).

I moved back to Texas in 2014 after nineteen years away, and this is first Halloween that has felt like fall—the way Halloween should feel—since my return. It’s usually pretty hot here in October; there’s nothing like decorating for Fall in 90 degree temperatures. But Texas kids are tough. Even the two years in a row that it rained, I thought surely I was going to be stuck with enough candy to change my name to Wonka. But as is typical in my neighborhood, my supplies exhausted early enough to shut down the lights and turn up the horror movies on my TV to drown out the continuing doorbell chimes from the late-callers. You snooze you lose, kids. Or in most cases at that time of night, not so much kids, as young men in hoodies holding out pillow cases who will surely be eating their spoils in the high school lunch room all the next week. But I’m not judging. If I could get away with it, I’d be still be extorting candy in my old age.

House of horrors

I’m always impressed at how unaffected the tiny ones are by the horror I display in my yard. I guess the lure of free candy is greater than fearing imitations of Hell. My poor neighbors, having to endure a month of my heads on stakes, spooky graveyard, bats and witches. Still in recovery mode from the covids and physically unable to accomplish reaching the high horror-decoration standards I set for myself, I decided that this year I would go minimal: just throw a few strings of lights on the bushes and set up my Jack-o-lanterns in the front window. I had to do something since the kids these days have a new modus operandi for trick-or-treating: they only get out of the car at the homes with decorations.

Then my brother and his wife invited me to their Friday night Halloween Eve party in Austin. This would be perfect. I could simply unplug my lights and not have to worry about kids showing up at my house, or the fact that I couldn’t unpack my illusions of fear kept in plastic tubs-o-horror in the garage. With the porch light off I could escape for a bootiful weekend scaring up some fun and...well...booze, in Austin. (I love it when grapes wine.) The pity of finally having fall arrive in Houston for Halloween night was that I would leave town. I’d be missing the perfect weather for the candy hunt. It reminds me of missing school when the substitute teacher was filling in.

A cold-front hits Houston

The cold-front hit on a Wednesday following a nice line of heavy rain moving in from the northwest. On Thursday the proverbial windows were opened to let a fierce wind blow through Texas, complete with wind advisories. This is the day I left for Austin, which is mostly west of Houston. For a good portion of the drive, the headwind was such that even though my cruise control was set for 80, it was holding at 74. I’m not saying that I was speeding. I think 80 might be a lower number than 75, which may or may not have been the speed limit. And if you’re Texas law enforcement, I take liberties with the stories I write and was only going the legal speed limit. Which is 75 except for the cute little speed traps along the way, where I seem to be the only person who actually slows down for them. That’s not taking liberties, it’s called getting old and wondering out loud to the cars passing me so quickly, why are you going so fast? It says 60, not 85! Speed traps aren’t as dangerous as when I was driving so fast in my younger days.

I enjoy the drive between Houston and Austin. There are some slow rolling hills, low Texas mesquite trees, lots of flowers during spring, and passing over the mighty Brazos River excites the native Texan in me. This is the longest river that flows entirely in Texas, with its watershed stretching from New Mexico to the Gulf of Mexico. The full name of the river is Rio de los Brazos de Dios, which roughly translates to “That's a very powerful and inspiring name.” That’s what the internet said; and we all know we can trust that. I do believe, in actuality, that it translates to, “The arms of God.” It was upon the shores of this river in the settlement of Washington that Texas declared its independence from Mexico. I realize this has nothing to do with my story, but I do love Texas history and I bet you didn’t know any of that.

So not only did the constant easterly gale slow my roll up highway 290, it may have pushed all of the water in the Brazos River on down into the Gulf of Mexico. While that may be a Texas tall tale, what isn’t is the fact that the retention ponds and small lakes along the route were covered in white caps. Actual white caps the likes of which I have never seen when not viewing the ocean or one of the Great Lakes of the Northern US. And the winds affected not only water, but traffic. While watching the vehicles with trailers get pushed around the road like a bully in the school lunch line was fun, it was nothing like seeing retention ponds as small as my bedroom topped with white caps. And I swear the east-bound traffic was getting a solid push with that tail wind.

White caps on the Atlantic

There was little traffic between the two Texas cities, which was nice. For once it actually took the three hours to drive to my brother’s that I always say it does—and should—but usually takes closer to four with pee breaks and heavy traffic. (Another sign of increasing age: multiple pee breaks for a three-hour drive.) I think the guy in the big U-Haul truck enjoyed the lack of traffic as well. He passed me in excess of 15MPH over the speed limit, swerving from lane to lane in the wind like a drunk man leaving the scene of a crime. “Don’t hit me, bro.”

After wondering if I shouldn’t have stayed home to drive in conditions that didn’t have me practically crabbing like a private plane in a cross-wind, it was nice to pull in front of my family’s home. I love Halloween and for years I’ve wanted to spend it with my young nephews before they grow out of their prime trick-or-treating years. But as much as I love being home to hand out treats surrounded by my scary decorations, those in pursuit of free candy, decked out in their princess, super-hero, alien, monster, zombie, and hoodie costumes will be there year after year. My nephews window for acceptable trick-or-treating years slowly closes. I may still think of them as needing help going to the restroom, even after correcting my math to remind me that they are nearing middle school—they grow up so fast. They won’t be dressing up much longer and I’m not getting any younger. To them, I must be about 80 years old. Kids these days. I think I should spend the next few Halloweens in Austin. So during this time, best witches.

Texas: all 4 seasons on the same day.

Penguin’s List of The Fourteen Seasons of Houston Weather:

February 1-10 Calico season (a bit of winter, fall and a few days of summer)

February 11-March 15 Spring

March 16- April 30 Hot

May-Jun Summer

July-August Liquid Air Summer (high humidity abounds)

September Enough Summer Already, Please

October 1-10 Fall for everyone but Houston where it’s still summer

October 11- 18 Thank the gods it’s finally Fall

October 19-31 The Return of Summer

November 1-15 Fall

November 15-30 Summer’s farewell visit

December 1-10 Fall part 3

December 11-20 Potluck: perhaps Winter. Or maybe Fall. Summer is quite possible.

December 21-January 30 Two weeks of winter but not in a row. Other wise, Fall.

 

 

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