“Smell the Coffee” column from the Sunday, Oct. 30, 2005 Sunday Gazette-Mail:

It was a dark and stormy night. The perfect Halloween evening for the perfect Halloween scare.

Three friends and I had double-dog dared each other to stay until midnight in a house rumored to be haunted. The house was located not far from our high school, but unless you knew where to look, it was easy to miss–hidden high on a hill, accessible only by a steep and narrow cement staircase that had broken and tilted over the years.

We’d peeked through the windows on several occasions and were surprised when it hadn’t been vacant. But those who dared rent it never stayed long. We were still young enough to believe they were frightened away by ghosts. (These days, I’d classify those stairs more daunting than demons.)

The only cheerleader in our group brought several small hand bells and a package of incense to the house, confident their powers would ward off any demons. The twins and I teased her for bringing those things, even though (by sheer coincidence, I’m sure) we three had worn almost identical crosses.

I suppose I should pause here for a moment to insert a few details. First of all, our cheerleader friend–a tall, gorgeous blonde–was the type of character who inspired a great many people. Mostly, she inspired them to write blonde jokes. And second, just prior to our dare, we’d been to a Halloween party and were still wearing our costumes. I was dressed as the Cat in the Hat, the twins were Thing 1 and Thing 2, and our cheerleader friend was a ghoul (with really good taste in shoes).

We entered the house through an unlocked kitchen window, then explored the first floor with our flashlights. Empty boxes, cans and cigarette butts were scattered about, but it seemed disappointingly normal. We moved upstairs. It smelled bad up there, a rotten-egg, sulfur-y smell. The floor felt spongy in places, the boards too damp even to squeak. But how scary was a stinky house with quiet floors?

We were pretty jaunty by then–jumping out, yelling BOO, making weird sounds. We returned to the kitchen to nose around when I spotted a door with three bolts and an eyehook. It appeared to have something painted on it, but my flashlight batteries were too weak to make it out. I lit a match and read it out loud.

“DOWN HERE BE THE DEMONS.”

Thing One giggled and said, “We should not be here. We should not be about.”

“We should not be here when the demons are out,” added Thing Two.

“This is cool!” said our ghoul. She slid open the bolts and trotted down to the basement in her cute little shoes, leaving the three of us frozen in place.

And then something went bump. How that bump made us jump!

I wanted to run. I wanted to flee. But what of my ghoul-friend? What if she needed me?

We huddled at the top of the stairs, illuminating the basement as best as we could with our faltering flashlights. We could hear her voice, but had trouble understanding her words. Then we heard other voices. Deep, gravely voices that rumbled and vibrated like an idling semi.

“We be the demons,” one of them said.

Our friend actually giggled. “And I be a ghoul,” she said.

After listening to a few minutes of confusing blonde-speak, one of them sighed deeply and sent her away. She joined us again at the top of the stairs, where we all hugged her tight.

“Weren’t you scared?” I asked.

“Scared?” she said incredulously, tilting her head to the side like a confused Cocker Spaniel. “Why would I be scared? Even I know that demons are a ghoul’s best friend.”

Smell the Coffee” column from the Sunday, Oct. 23, 2005 Sunday Gazette-Mail:

To think I almost didn’t go.

It had been a rough week, filled with one maddening little disaster after another. I’ll spare you the details, but recovery from just one of those little disasters required the purchase of Excedrin, Pepto Bismol, spot remover, Lysol, a six-pack of paper towels, and a jug of Tide so big I can convert the empty into a goldfish pond.

My lucky husband missed the whole thing, as he’d been in Morgantown for the week keeping his grandmother company while his folks were away. The plan was for Celeste and I to join him there on Friday night, then on Saturday, we’d use his dad’s season tickets to go to the WVU-Louisville game.

But by Friday, I was frazzled. High strung and wound tight and loaded for bear. The last things I felt like doing come quitting time were packing the car, depositing my pay check in my gas tank and driving for three hours. I almost didn’t go. But I did.

As we waited at a traffic light near the interstate on-ramp, I told my daughter, “You’re probably going to think I’m insane . . .” Then I popped in a Christmas music CD. Soon, we were both happily butchering lyrics (”Rudolph the wet-nose reindeer, had a very runny nose . . .”). My dark mood started to lift. Christmas music can almost always do that for me.

The next day, Celeste and I were standing outside near a tree when two half-grown squirrels decided I’d make a good playground. It only lasted a few minutes, but I felt like Snow White. I almost expected blue birds to light on my shoulder.

To think I almost hadn’t gone. (And I haven’t even gotten to the game.)

When we arrived at Mountaineer Field, we met up with Uncle Rod and Aunt Brenda, who had a spare ticket for Celeste. Since our seats and theirs couldn’t have been more far apart, she’d sit with them for the first half, then move over with us if there was room.

It had been a while since I’d been to a game and I’d forgotten how rowdy our fans can be. “That’s the Screamer,” Geoff said the first time the nearby regular screeched so loud he scared a few new grays into sprouting from my scalp. The game hadn’t even started and the guy was already barking coaching suggestions at the players as they warmed up.

Once I grew accustomed to his strangely-timed and oddly worded rants (”Run away, bunnies! Run away!,”) I really got into the game. So did the five passionate and thoroughly blood-thinned men seated in front of us, although their method of cheering included the loud and liberal use of many four-letter words. I was relieved Celeste wasn’t sitting with us. I pictured her attempting to make them put coins in the swear jar after each word.

The sun was blinding on the side of the stadium we were on, so I made arrangements to finance a ball cap from a nearby souvenir stand. I hoped the poor college-age guy seated next to me would see how I was wearing my new hat and realize his was on backwards, which was why he had to shield his eyes with his hand.

By a few minutes into the third quarter, when the score reached 24-7 and many of the seats around us had cleared out, I went over and retrieved Celeste, believing we might leave soon ourselves. I was leaning that way.

And then, man, what a game! I’d never been present for something like that, never been so invested that I forgot to be inhibited and was screaming right along with everyone else.

To think I almost didn’t go. That I almost chose to stay home and sulk. That I almost missed out on singing Christmas carols in October and touching wild squirrels and seeing a game that will likely never be rivaled.

I almost didn’t. But thank God I did.

Smell the Coffee” column from the Sunday, Oct. 16, 2005 Sunday Gazette-Mail:

It’s said that into each life, some rain must fall. It’s a pretty simple concept to grasp. Except for my dog. To Murry, the only acceptable liquids are those confined to his water bowl. Any dampness beyond that is repulsive, especially when it patters down from the sky.

I recently awakened to a hard, steady rain, the kind that tempts me to open the window a few inches, then crawl back into bed and let it lull me to sleep. But I noticed Murry was standing cross-legged and nervous in my doorway, so I forced myself up. I headed for the back porch with my pooch close at my heels.

Murry didn’t realize it was raining until I opened the door, then he backed away quickly, apparently fearing the evil human might force a moistening upon him. I chose not to take offense with his low opinion of me and closed the door.

Murry bounded a few steps in front of me, still doing what I’ve come to recognize as his full bladder dance, as I headed toward the front of the house. He bounced right up to the front door, then posed there, looking joyously first at the doorknob, then back at me. I opened the door.

I believe the word “crestfallen” would best describe Murry’s expression when he realized that–dagnabbit–it was raining there, too.

I’m not sure how Murry has come to be so disgusted by water. I mean, aside from the time he learned the hard way that dogs can’t float on their backs, and aside from that one water-related incident with the groomer (the one who didn’t charge us, so long as we promised to never come back). But aside from that, Murry’s never had a traumatic water experience I can think of.

Certainly not like a dog my aunt Wilma was telling me about recently. Now that dog has a reason to hate water. His owners do, too.

It seems that their dog, a super-sized black lab named Ben, was more fond of drinking from the big, white porcelain water bowl (the one with the silver handle) than he was of his regular bucket. Although Ben’s owners took care to put the lid down, Ben was a strong and determined creature who soon learned how to root open the lid with his nose. The family believes that’s what Ben was likely attempting to do when he accidentally bumped shut the door, trapping himself in a tiny, second floor bathroom while no humans were home.

So displeased was big Ben by his captivity that he began tearing at the door, clawing at the fixtures, breaking loose the flimsy shut-off valve beside the commode. Water soon covered the floor.

Now before all you dog lovers out there start worrying that I’m going to tell of a drowning, remember that Ben is a lab. A true water dog. He was in his element. Unscathed.

The house wasn’t so lucky.

For the next six or so hours, water poured from those broken pipes, ran down the wall, caved in a ceiling, thoroughly saturating the carpets and hardwood flooring below. So thoroughly saturated was that flooring from the hours of flooding that the weight prompted the house to shift on its foundation.

The insurance appraiser said if there was an award to be given for the most damage caused by a non-bite related dog incident, this would have to be it.

Needless to say, the owners weren’t too happy with Ben. His actions put him in the dog house–literally. But I doubt being outside bothers Ben all that much. Unlike my Murry, big Ben likes rain.