The other day a friend of mine was venting her rage over the convoluted security rituals we all endure at airports. My only advice was the classic St. Francis line about learning to accept what we cannot change.

On reflection, however, there are a few concrete measures that can improve life in the security line.

The most obvious is, unfortunately, not feasible. Flying in the nude isn’t legal. But I do try to come as close to this ideal as I can. Stripping down to the bare essentials does send a visual message to the authority figures that there is not much left to mess with. In summer I can pare down to only two items of clothing, one being a dress. (Shoes don’t count, because they are coming off.)

Diamonds and jewelry are not a girl’s best friend at the airport. The other day I had the misfortune of being behind a woman who apparently did not know that jewelry aficionados are prime terrorist suspects. It took her three trips through the scanner to locate and cast off all her multiple rings, bracelets and necklaces. She definitely needs a class in bead and string jewelry making.

Other accessories also can make you an instant center of attention. Giant belt buckles and big metal buttons send a person directly to the pat down line as do western style hats, jackets and skirts decorated with metal studs. Metal hair hardware is a real alarm ringer, too.

Shoes deserve special mention. Face it, you will probably have to take them off. Would it be wise to wear those cute, high boots that lace all the way up to your knees? No wonder I see lots of people wearing flip-flops at airports … in the dead of winter. These people aren’t slobs, they are just patriots.

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Most everyone knows that witches are make believe. Those that don’t have created much havoc down through the ages right up to the present day. Poor Harry Potter gets censored, and Halloween parades get cancelled.

Thanks to L. Frank Baum, we know that witches come in two varieties, the wicked ones and the good ones. My favorite wicked witch is from Russian folklore. Her name is Baba Yaga, she has iron teeth and flies in a mortar and pestle. But the best part is her house; it stands on giant chicken feet and can spin around. (click here if you are feeling brave)

If witches were real, there is still nothing to fear. The defense is found in almost every adobe house in our own American Southwest. You simply paint the doors bright blue. Blue doors keep the brujas away.

I’ve spent considerable time being a children’s storyteller, and Halloween stories are among my favorites. But I always preface these storytimes by telling the kids my viewpoint — “I hate really scary stuff. So we will only do fun scary stories.”

One day when reading a silly witch story to a group of youngsters, I discovered a latent talent. I can make the best witch voice in the world. Sadly, I am not bragging – it’s true.

When I switched to my witch voice in the story, one of my storytime kids burst into hysterical sobs and shrieks. The nice storytime lady had turned into a witch! When you’ve got a gift, you must use it with great care.

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I confess to a great fondness for spiders. Spiders are creators of great beauty, and I’m a sucker for visual delights.

The Navajos have a lovely story about Spider Woman who lives under the ground. Changing Woman visits Spider Woman and is taught how to weave, with one condition. Changing Woman must teach other Navajo women the art of weaving. Since Navajo women are some of the greatest weavers in the world, Spider Woman must be pleased.

On certain magical mornings, when the dew covers our meadow and the sunrise is just right, everything in the yard is looped with webs outlined in sparkling drops. That’s when I remember that we live absolutely surrounded by spiders all the time.

The spiders on the outside walls of our house and I carry on a polite ballet. I hate to destroy their gorgeous handiwork. But if I don’t occasionally cleanup, they proceed to “seal” all our outside doors and windows with their lacy webs. After my gentle cleaning, they can spin new orb webs in about an hour.

As I explain to kids in my science classes, spiders don’t chase people. Their venom is for getting lunch. All spider bites are accidents, so it behooves us large-brained mammals not to stick our body parts in dark corners or lonesome woodpiles.

The largest spider I’ve ever met was the size of a teacup. It was curled up taking a daytime nap in a rainforest tree in Costa Rica. This tarantula was definitely not a woman-eater, and I feel privileged to have encountered it.

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The difference between style and fashion is easy. Fashion is someone else telling you what to wear. Style is you creating your own personal look. I will vote for style every time.

Growing up, I had the perfect role model to exemplify pure, uninhibited style. My Aunt Vi created a look for herself as a young woman and remained unabashedly true to her style until she died at age 89.

The major elements of Vi style were tailored suits in primary colors (Kelly green and red were her favorites), faux leopard accents, large hoop earrings, piles of real Navajo silver and turquoise bracelets and stiletto heels. Tabu perfume was the olfactory complement to her look.

Aunt Vi also had a real leopard skin coat in the days before conservation was a household word. When I inherited that coat, I was torn between my love for Aunt Vi and my love for animals. To solve this dilemma, I buried the leopard coat in our backyard.

My cousin Linda is one of the style stars in my life now. Her style is so fabulous that she has her own fan club. A group of young girls in her church can’t wait to see what Linda will be wearing when she does the weekly reading.

Linda’s clothes are boldly colored and patterned tops and skirts made of flowing chiffon. She complements these outfits with big, chunky, bead encrusted jewelry and amazing purses – one handbag is shaped like a teapot. Linda is a walking art show. I’m one of her groupies, too.

Among my many stylish friends, Donna has to be the absolute Queen of Style. Who else do I know that can pull off wearing a full length white, turkey feather coat?

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When I think of Holland, I do not visualize tulips and windmills. I think of cats and giants.

Dogs may visit French cafes, but cats live in many Dutch restaurants. The resident cat may be asleep on the chair you pull out or be rubbing against your legs as you dine. Cat lover that I am, this situation makes me feel right at home. If you are repulsed, remember that Holland is a land of canals, and cats perform valuable mouse duty.

The giants are everywhere as the Dutch are officially the tallest people in the world. It’s not as though they have a lot of growing room. The Netherlands is the size of two New Jerseys with a population of about 16 million. It is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. No one knows why the Dutch tower over the rest of the world, but good nutrition and health care are probable guesses.

Most young men in Holland have the stature of NBA basketball players, but it’s the women who are particularly striking. When Dutch women stride down the street, they resemble lithe giraffes. Their trim jeans on their trim legs seem to be never-ending.

The growth spurt must start early. Children with 7 year old faces have the legs of our 12 year olds. If only our American kids’ growth was going up instead of out!

Height is not reserved for the younger generations. People my age are also extremely tall. I did eat my peas when I was a kid, but, by Dutch standards, I seem to be missing about seven inches.

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