My Halloween Conundrum

By G. E. Shuman

My mother used to use the word conundrum every once in a while.  She probably still does.  When I was a small child I sometimes wondered at the meaning of that strange word.  Those were the days before wikipedia, and children such as I also wondered at the meaning of words like dictionary, so for years I never really learned what conundrum meant.  I did have some idea what that meaning was, and now have no idea why I didn’t just ask my mother at the time.   These days we do have wikipedia, and I have learned what the word dictionary means, so I looked up the word conundrum.  According to wikipedia, the word conundrum means: A logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem.   I knew it!  I was right all along!

So, I am now faced with a logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem, a conundrum.  My conundrum has to do with Halloween, but you know that if you read the title.  You see, I have always loved Halloween.  If you know me, you know that I am also a quite imperfect Christian, but do love the teachings of the Lord, and appreciate the council of my church family in matters of how to live.  I just can’t do the church-family advice-thing completely, on the subject of Halloween.  

I know that most Christian churches, including my own, discourage the celebration of what has been called the devil’s holiday.  This may seem a little spooky, but I just don’t see it that way.  I never have.  I know that bad things are done by bad people on this particular fall night, and I hate all of those things.  Still, to me, Halloween is about kids dressing up to get candy… and maybe a slight fright. In my day this special night was all about witches and goblins and ghost stories and pumpkins. The scariest sound you heard was someone yelling “BOO!”  Maybe the problem is that it’s no longer my day.

I once wrote a column which included the true childhood memory of “the sooty-sweet smell of candle-lit carved pumpkins.”  To me, Halloween evening also brings back memories of dead leaves, and the first brisk bite of winter, whipping around in the nighttime air.  I actually have been known to stand on the front lawn, just to conger up this feeling, on this bone-chilling night.  I also always recall the scent of baskets of crisp apples on Halloween-decorated porches at trick or treat time, and the seasonal taste of popcorn balls, candy corn, and cider.  

I know that all of these memories are just a yearly re-sensing of coldness and darkness, and the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of autumn. Halloween is not necessary for one to experience any of them.  Still, there is something deliciously scary in the idea that something might just be there in the darkness, watching from behind that familiar old tree.   This year I will decorate the front porch a bit, in the hope of ‘spooking’ trick or treaters just a little.  I don’t go overboard, but I have not given up on the spirit of Halloween yet.  

I will now return to my mental cauldron, and continue stirring the seasonal ingredients of my terrible Halloween conundrum.

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My Great Air Conditioner Ritual

By G. E. Shuman

Our lives are filled with rituals.  I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s just the way it is.  Some of these rituals are intentional and cherished ones, like holiday traditions and church attendance, although church attendance should mean more than that.  Some of our rituals, or oft repeated happenings that become rituals, are much less lofty things than holidays and church-going. (Look at me. I used the word ‘oft’.)  Some, like taking daily medication, making the morning coffee, or even washing the flea-bitten dog are simply parts of our repeated routine, but soon become rituals.  I have actually walked from the kitchen, after making that morning coffee, and listened for the sounds of the coffee maker, to be sure I had just made the morning coffee.  That’s how ingrained into my routine that ritual has become.  Be honest, you have done things like that, too.
One ritual I always perform happens less frequently than coffee-making, but two times as frequently as a holiday.  These times are my twice-yearly encounters with our three upstairs window air conditioners.  We bought the necessary but bothersome things four or five years ago.  My wife pointed to the ones in the store that she thought we should get, and from that moment on they have been my sole responsibility.  It’s funny how some things seem to work out that way.  Each spring I take those air conditioners, one at a time, out of Andrew’s, Emily’s, and our bedroom closets, and proceed to mount them in their respective bedroom windows.  Each fall I reverse the entire process, returning them to their winter resting places on those same closet floors.
Right from day one I have tried to care for those precious little devils. (The air conditioners, not my kids, although I do also care for my kids and almost never refer to them as little devils.)  Our units came with remote controls, as does everything but toasters and toilets these days.  (I am waiting for those developments.)  Every spring I remove each remote from the little zip lock bag I taped to the top of the machine the previous fall, and reinstall the also-bagged batteries.  I then prop our tired old wooden windows open, and, after gathering my strength and courage, wrestle each AC into its place, with most of its boxy body hanging precariously, in mid air, outside of the second floor of our home.   I do this quickly, hoping I can screw the window down and into place, before the AC obeys the law of gravity and plunges to its small-appliance doom, imbedding itself into our lawn some fifteen feet below.  So far, (Knock on old wooden window frame,) I have done this successfully.
Then, in the late-fall, reverse-half of the ritual, I have also, so far, successfully pulled each unit back into the house, and nearly hear each one sigh in relief as I rescue its little metallic body from the precipice.  Perhaps, and more likely, the sigh comes from me, although I’m not sure.
The time for this second, routine, and necessary AC event of the year is once again upon me.  Sometime within the next few evenings I will climb the stairs, hammer and power screwdriver in hand, and perform my de-air conditioning ritual once more.  Please wish me luck.  I do hope that none of the boxy little things falls to its mechanical demise, although that would make the job one-third easier for me next spring.