For twenty years I taught at a creative arts school for young children. Playing Saint-Saen’s musical piece, Danse Macabre, was an annual Halloween tradition. The kids and I would dance to the music, starting out as sleeping skeletons under the ground, rising up and dancing faster and faster as the night progressed and melting back into the ground when the rooster crows and dawn arrives. What child doesn’t like whirling madly around while pretending to be in a spooky graveyard?

Anyone thinking children should be shielded from any mention of death might be surprised at this historical fact. In the 1800’s cemeteries were used by families as parks are now, for picnics, family gatherings and nature walks.

Consider this quote from a book on the history of cemeteries in America:

“The rural cemeteries laid out by horticulturists in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and New York in the 1830’s were romantic, pastoral landscapes of the picturesque type. Planned as serene and spacious grounds where the combination of nature and monuments would be spiritually uplifting, they came to be looked on as public parks, places of respite and recreation acclaimed for their beauty and usefulness to society…by their example, the popular new cemeteries started a movement for urban parks.”

Our massive municipal parks such as Central Park in New York and the Chicago lakefront parkway were a direct result.

One of the most famous cemeteries in America is Sleepy Hollow Cemetery near Tarrytown, New York. Dating back to 1849, it is the resting place of Washington Irving who wrote the famous tale, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, with its headless horseman.

I recently mentioned to a cousin of mine who is also our family genealogist that I have been in Tarrytown.

“Did you visit the cemetery?” he inquired. “We have an ancestor buried there.”

I had not known this piece of family history and am grateful to our scholarly historian who has spent many vacations wandering around in graveyards looking for our roots.

A visit to Sleepy Hollow cemetery is now on our travel list. We may even bring a picnic.

“How was your shopping experience?” the cashier at Office Max asked me the other day. I was momentarily flummoxed. Foolish me, I was not aware that I was having a shopping experience. I thought I was dashing in the store to buy a box of envelopes, one of a number of stops on my long list of errands.

I had just come from my grocery store which trains their employees to be pleasant to customers. If employees do not say hello to every customer and are not genuinely helpful, they are let go after one month. A young man who was stocking the dairy case said “hello” to me three times as I walked back and forth searching for the blue cheese. Then, right on cue, the check out lady inquired,”Have you found everything you were looking for today?”

Do not misinterpret my remarks here. I find this grocery store far superior to the one where I previously shopped. When I asked a cashier there which aisle an item was located, she snapped, “I don’t know I never shop here.”

Before the grocery store stop, a barista had asked me how my day was going. Knowing these poor employees are forced to ask this question, I always resist the urge to say, “the cat threw up fur balls all over the kitchen counter, I was late for work and I’m coming down with a cold.”

So when I was asked the quality of my shopping experience, I gave my standard answer, “fine”.

“Is that all?” was the cashier’s reply.

And then the goddess of truth inspired me and I said,” Actually my shopping experience would have been greatly enhanced if you were making a living wage, your job was full time, you had sick leave and health insurance and you didn’t have to ask me inane questions.”

Now the cashier was the flummoxed one until she recovered and said, “We should go out for a glass of wine together.”

Japanese woodblock prints are among my favorite types of art. Two women are responsible for opening my eyes to the subtle beauty of these prints, and I am grateful to both of them.

My mother decorated the walls of my childhood home with reproductions by famous artists. She believed that art was meant to be part of the everyday environment. Like the pictures in a beloved childhood book, our household art was imprinted in my brain. And a small reproduction of a big wave made one of the deepest impressions. I was fascinated by Hokusai’s Great Wave off Kanagawa…the ornate wave rising over the tiny boat of cowering men.

When I was an eighteen year old college student, our art department took a field trip to Chicago. The famed Art Institute was the main focus, but our teachers also planned a stop at a tiny shop that sold handmade Japanese paper. Aiko’s Art Materials was started in 1953 by the diminutive Aiko Nakane (link to a startling bio) who became known as the “grande dame” of Japanese paper, or washi, in America.

The teachers wanted us to know of this treasure trove of papers which we could use in our art work. But I fell in love with the paper itself and only wanted to frame it (many sheets were enhanced with dried leaves or stenciled patterns) or buy prints by contemporary Japanese artists on washi papers. Aiko also had a small, exquisite selection of prints displayed in her store.

My husband and I frequently visited Aiko’s for decades and decades. We pinched pennies and through the years were able to buy several beautiful prints to mark the seasons. Aiko retired at age 94 and died a year later in 2004. The store closed in 2008.

Last Friday we were in St. Paul, Minnesota, and stopped in their big, new Goodwill Store. I was making a quick scan of everything including the framed pictures. And then I couldn’t believe my eyes. I spotted a print in a dusty frame with filthy glass for $2.99. The woodblock print itself was in good condition….a lovely fall scene by Kiyoshi Saito, a prize winning Japanese printmaker.

Thanks to my mother and Aiko, I knew what my eyes were seeing. If I believed in karma, I would have thought these ladies had brought me to the spot.

I propose a moment of silence to remember the dear departed known as travel agents. Once upon a time, a phone call to them stating your travel destination and budget would bring a fat envelope to your mailbox a few days later. Plane tickets, hotel and car reservations, itineraries and travel tips all would be neatly arranged in a packet……at no charge.

Sadly, the airlines have sacrificed travel agents on their corporate altar of greed. We are forced to be our own travel agents. Anyone who flies now knows the hours of time wasted in securing a fairly priced ticket.

The nightmare is compounded by the fact that the airlines no longer have any set fares. The price varies from minute to minute based on what the market will bear. Gotcha!

One quick story will illustrate what ludicrous heights this situation has reached.

My husband and I were relaxing after dinner Friday enjoying our last sips of wine and beer. In a mellow mood, I said to my guy, “What cities have we never seen but would like to visit…….Calgary, for instance?”

We decided to check the airfares to Calgary. Bear in mind, we weren’t expecting any bargains. Americans hardly comprehend that Canada exists up there, and Calgary is not an airline hub.

The following is one of the first itineraries that popped up:

1. Chicago O’Hare to Houston
2. 23 hour 55 minute layover
3. Houston to Heathrow London
4. 1 hour 25 minute layover
5. London to Calgary

The trip was on Austrian Airlines, took three days to get there and covered 10, 441 miles. The price was $9,655 for one ticket in coach or $19,310 if we both wanted to go.

I do believe America has turned into dystopia and our prime job now is to keep our sanity. Someday, we will pack a bag and a cooler of food, hop in our Fiat 500 and drive the 1,515 miles to Calgary.

Fall is tardy this year. Autumn officially arrived on September 23, but the foliage has yet to explode into technicolor. A relative of mine who is here on a short visit from California was recently bemoaning our continued greenness.

I’m personally giving fall a tardy pass. Take all the time you want. A week of days that hit the 70 degree mark is fine with me. And nights that hover far above freezing keep the flowers blooming profusely.

Though the trees are showing only a few tinges of color, other signs of fall are at their peak. The roadsides are resplendent in purple and gold. More and more asters are coming into bloom each day with their rich palette of violet, magenta and purples. Interspersed with the asters are brilliant goldenrods which can light up even the cloudiest days.

The mild days are also ideal for viewing the monarch migration. Although their numbers have precipitately declined in recent years, the monarchs still cluster on our asters and false sunflowers lapping up nectar to fortify themselves for the long journey to Mexico.

Fall spider activity is peaking now as well. We wake up each morning to windows, doors and porch railings draped with orb webs. The fall window washing has been postponed until our busy weavers have stopped their frantic spinning.

No need to hurry things up, fall. About two more months of this slow show would be a joy.

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