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“Lifetime fitness” was not a phrase that had been invented when I attended a Polish, Catholic grade school in the 1950’s. Gym classes were nonexistent, but we did have Health. In Health Class we learned two things: everything is covered with vicious germs, and all boys have evil intentions.

To make matters worse, I was an only child growing up in a neighborhood of retirees. Needless to say, I never learned to kick a can, throw a ball or climb a tree.

I attended my first gym class in middle school, and agony doesn’t begin to describe that experience. Of course, nobody wanted me on their team. Who wants a kid that ducks when a ball comes her way?

Things got worse. My one and only high school gym teacher was an obese, chain smoking, ex WAC sergeant.

My chosen college required lots of physical education, and I was mortified. But then Miss Crane came into my unfit life.

From the smorgasbord of phy. ed. choices, I picked “Square and Round Dancing”. On the first day of class our instructor, Miss Crane, walked in the door and crossed the gym floor to start the class. That’s all she had to do, and I was hooked on a life of fitness. Miss Crane was about seventy years old with gray hair and a dancer’s lithe, trim body. She had a working knowledge of every one of her muscles. Wearing a simple black leotard and a long ballet skirt, she was grace personified.

From my first class with that amazing woman, I knew that fitness was not about competition, winning, being first or beating my body to a pulp.

Everyone who knows me realizes that I am not a bit graceful. But thanks to the elegant Miss Crane, I take great joy in having muscles, joints and tendons that are exercised every day.

We learn what we see.

Sandra’s seen a leprechaun,
Eddie touched a troll,
Laurie danced with witches once,
Charlie found some goblins’ gold.
Donald heard a mermaid sing,
Susy spied an elf,
But all the magic I have known
I’ve had to make myself.
         -Shel Silverstein

I’m in almost total agreement with Shel Silverstein. Many years ago, when I first read this poem, its truth hit me like a thunderbolt. For magic to happen, I will have to work. On the other hand, I won’t be sitting around waiting for some no-show fairy godmother to appear.

The witching time is nearing, and there is work to be done. My sleek black witch dress ( a thirty year old party gown) needs airing. I definitely must head to Goodwill to find a new witch hat. Then the perfect pumpkin has to be selected from our local pumpkin wagon which works on the honor system … money is put in the unattended cash box which sits on a hay bale. Halloween cards need to be made and treats baked. And, finally, the CD of Danse Macabre must be dusted off.

I’m hoping for a magical night. Only one ingredient is missing: luck can’t be conjured up with work. With luck, all the pieces will fall into place.

Happy Haunting.

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My husband and I have a surefire prescription for joy. Spend a half hour or so watching the fun at a dog park. Not having a dog is no impediment to viewing the jubilation.

The best time to go is around 5:30 P.M. The dogs have been cooped up all day waiting for their owners to return. When the leash comes out, these pups are ready. They arrive at the park in a steady stream … the small and the tall, floppy eared and pointy eared, all quivering with excitement with tails wagging madly.

The minute the leashes are unsnapped, they are off, running madly in huge circles and greeting all their canine friends. Back ends are sniffed. Pecking orders are established. The play field becomes a happy jumble of racing, cavorting, leaping, fetching dogs.

I imagine what must be going on in their doggy brains:

i’m so happy i’m so happy oh boy oh boy oh boy this is so much fun i want to stay forever throw the ball throw the ball i can get it watch me go i’m a happy dog here’s the ball throw it again what are you waiting for throw the ball throw the ball i can get it here i go oh boy oh boy oh boy i’m on it i’m on it let’s stay here forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I once spent a happy evening in a park in Barcelona playing catch with a dog. We were sitting on a park bench smiling at a dog’s obvious joy at retrieving its tennis ball over and over.  Then the dog’s owner, a charming lady, smiled at me and offered me the ball. I don’t speak Catalan and she did not speak English, but her meaning was clear: please join in the fun. And I did, until the tennis ball was so soggy it was dripping.

Much to the displeasure of the Tooley Cats, dog visitors are always welcome at our house. We have the biggest dog park of all. It’s called the beach.

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One morning last week, my husband went out for the mail and came back with a bucket of meat.

“The raccoons will be happy tonight,” he laughed.

I wondered if I had just entered the world of Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, that hilarious children’s book where food rains down from the sky.

My husband’s theory on the meat was more mundane. Approaching the mailbox, he saw two packages of pork sausages, one huge package of ground beef, a large fish fillet and a stick and a half of butter sprawled out on Lake Shore Road. All the food was in grocery store packages, but some were opened with a bit missing. Since a Packer game was held in Green Bay the night before, he surmised the bounty was fallout from a tailgate party.

At dusk the feast was spread out in the Tooley Cafe. We made bets on who would come and what would be gobbled up first. We were both wrong. A stray cat ate a bit of the fish, followed by a raccoon who grabbed a stick of butter, put it in his mouth and ran back into the woods. A steady parade of creatures followed and were still arriving when we went to bed.

The next morning the ground was licked clean. I recently heard a piece on NPR about a family who gets all their food by dumpster diving behind grocery stores for discarded, unopened food packages. They not only get all their meals, but also fill their freezer and have ample food to share with others.

We are not about to dive for our dinners, but we won’t waste good food either. There are always hungry mouths to be fed.

I am not afraid of bread. I love bread and eat it for breakfast (toast), lunch (sandwich) and dinner (rolls or french bread).

The phenomenon known as wraps was a total mystery to me. Finally, I asked a friend,”Why are you eating that?”

“I don’t want the calories in bread”, she replied.

So it is bread phobia that makes people consume those soggy, cold, tasteless, unmanageable bread substitutes, a.k.a. wraps.

In our Western culture, bread is deeply infused with historic and cultural significance. I am stunned that it is so easily shunned to save dubious calories. I would definitely prefer to break bread with friends rather than to break wraps. Jesus did not hand out wraps and fishes nor did he symbolically use wraps at The Last Supper. Wraps are not referred to as the staff of life.

Realtors advise home sellers to bake bread immediately before their home is shown. A cold wrap displayed on the kitchen counter will not lure potential customers. And ponder this: the most perfect meal may be homemade soup, fruit, cheese and crusty, warm bread.

Who’s afraid of the big, bad bread? Definitely not me. Bread lovers of the world, rise up! Bread is getting a bad wrap.