The horror of Halloween is in not taking part

Today the lady who counted my money at the bank had spiders in her hair. Her long, pointy, green nails scraped across the bottom of the bills as she flipped through my money.

On any other day this scene would ring inappropriate. The banker would be terminated, and perhaps driven to a psych ward. But on Halloween things are different. The rules are flung out the window, and left there until time ticks the last minute of the night away.

People popped up in costumes at a stream of places today. I saw a cluster of grim reapers and goblins in front of the hotel on Ames in Baldwin. My neighbor masqueraded as that creepy guy from V for Vendetta. And I had a class with Mario, as in the brother. It's nice to see people of all ages celebrating this fun event.

But not everyone is dressing up. Some aren't even handing out candy.

I asked a few students what type of candy they were going to give this year. I got doe eyes.

"Candy? Huh?"

You know... that milk chocolatey, gooey, yummy stuff that you try not to eat lest you have to upgrade your pants size? Oh, they knew what it was. They just don't hand it out. From what I've gathered, word around Baker indicates not many do.

I found this unsettling. Maybe I'm just a little too attached to the holiday. But think about it. A little over a decade ago students hauled bags filled with candy corn, Reeses Pieces, Hersheys and Snickers bars from door to door. Their eyes beamed when they saw a porch light, and shot with disappointment when they spotted an undecorated, dark house.

It wasn't that long ago when students felt the thrill of Halloween by receiving. So why aren't many eager to feel a similar thrill by giving?

Distributing Halloween candy enhances the community connection. It shows that you care. And it demonstrates that you know how to have fun.

In this technologically driven, impersonal world, a gesture as subtle as slipping a fun-size bag of M&Ms into a plastic bag can crack the invisible barrier that separates us. Or, if anything else, it can cause the lips of a couple of kids to crack into a smile. That's priceless. So next year, hustle to the grocery and lug a variety pack to the checkout, because no one remembers the places without lights. Or the bankers without green nails.

P. S. If you do heed my advice for next year, don't pass out tooth brushes. That's the parents' domain.

Laura Moriarty comes to Baker

Gripping my audio recorder like a weapon protecting me from the danger of my fallable memory, I poured every ounce of concentration onto the woman before me.

Slender, as erect as a statue, and wearing a black two-piece dress with tiny lemon cookie crumbs sprinkled on her blouse, Laura Moriarty, the author of "The Center of Everything" smiled sincerely at me, my shoulders slightly hunched, my extra large sweatshirt sleeves hanging past my wrists, and my hair drooping into my eyes, as I asked a lengthy string of questions in no apparent order.

Moriarty, a Lawrence resident, came to Baker last night to speak to students about her new book, "The Rest of Her Life," and the writing process. She was humble, intelligent, empathetic and beautiful. But all of that is no surprise when acquainted with Moriarty's writing voice.

Her first book, "The Center of Everything" (If you haven't read it yet, I recommend you do.) closely associates with human emotion and provides a compassionate look into the lives of fictional characters that appeal so real the reader is tricked into believing they are.

This reader was so thoroughly tricked that I finished the book in a day, and was painfully disturbed that it was over.

Moriarty stayed after to sign everyone's book and speak to students. I lingered longer and blasted her with questions. My eyes widened, and pathetically, my lower jaw hung open like a draw bridge. My mind raced, digesting all of her words.

Each answer inspired another question.

It would be quite easy for someone who has written a book as good as Moriarty's to resituate themselves onto an elevated plain, to develop an ego. But Morarty wasn't at all conceited. She was distinctly genuine, sincere and extremely patient.

She carefully supplied thoughtful answers to each of my questions, and she really understood what it meant to be a struggling writer.

But more than that, Moriarty knows what it means to be a struggling human. Her latest book focuses on a person's life after having accidently killed another in a car accident. The accident in question was provoked by a single moment of absent mindedness. The book centers on the emotional repercussions and impact on the driver and her family after such an event.

I haven't read the book yet, because I am so poor I'm on the Ramen noodle diet. But, Moriarty's writing is of such a high quality, I'm tempted to dodge the gas bill this month in order to invest in another day of excellent recreational reading.

Moriarty is a local writer, and I believe it's important that we support her. Afterall, her books are well worth it.

Don't burn the leaves, burn the ordinance

Baldwin City resident Dennis Waymire likes to take his 11-year-old daughter for walks in the evenings. But during the fall, the Waymires' walks aren't as pleasant because they have to tread through a thick wall of smoke. This is because it's been a longstanding tradition for Baldwin City residents to burn, instead of bag, their leaves. And in the fall, when the leaves tumble from the treetops, littering yards, people stuff them into barrels and light them on fire.

"There are some days that the smoke is overbearing," Waymire said. "And on those days it's definitely at a toxic level."

Last year, concerned for his daughter's, and his own, respiratory system, Waymire did a cursory google search and to his dismay, discovered that the toxins released when leaves are burned can be dangerous, aggravating asthma, and other respiratory problems. Some sites even suggest links to cancer. After digging deeper into his research, Waymire compiled a bunch of information on the dangers and presented it to the Baldwin City Council.

"I introduced it to the council last year, the reason being they are allowing the fires 365 days a year with no regulations," Waymire said. "If we're burning fall leaves, there's no reason to allow it all year."

It took a year for the safety committee to review the information, and on Oct. 4, Baldwin City Council passed an ordinance regulating leaf burning with a 4-1 vote. The new ordinance only allows people to burn leaves 10 times a year, and they have to attain a permit from the city to do so. If a person violates the oridnance, they will receive an open-ended fine from Baldwin City Municipal Court. The suggested amount for a first offense is $25. Oh, and only 25 people per day are allowed to burn at a time.

The problem is, how can the new regulations keep people from chucking garbage, lumber, or junk in with the leaves? And like Waymire pointed out, why should people be allowed to burn leaves all year when they only pose a problem in the fall?

"It's hard to regulate. Is it a leaf fire or construction debris?" Waymire asked.

Waymire said that he's seen kids cease playing outside because of the excessive smoke.

"The trees are so dense down here, if the wind is blowing real heavy the smoke just hangs down here," Waymire said. "There's like a wall of smoke, and that happens quite a bit."

It's pretty backwoodsy that people still burn leaves here. Smoke has been scientifically linked to harm humans. There's no value in a tradition that only serves to provide an easy way out. Burning leaves might not be as costly or labor intensive as bagging, but it produces harmful effects. Is the lazy alternative really worth the risk? The city council evidently thinks so.

"I gave the information to the city council and they've all read it so they all know," Waymire said. "I'm hoping that they do something about it. Now I think it should be banned 100 percent."

And so do I. Give it another year, and maybe they'll think about it.

Winfield Festival pulled people from all over- Even DC.

Winfield's 36th annual Walnut Valley Festival, which attracts about 15,000 people, has come and gone. The music festival is known as bluegrass, or simply Winfield, and it pulls people from all over- New Zealand, Australia, Canada, and, of course, Douglas County.
Though Winfield is a 150 miles from DC, many people take off work or school to drive to the campgrounds and sleep in tents.
Last year, Lawrence resident Dave Learned and his buddies purchased a bus, for $1,000 dollars on Ebay, to drive to the festival. The group took the bus again this year.
"We needed a large commercial vehicle and all the RV's we could afford were really crappy," Learned said. "So we got the bus instead."
At the festival, the smell of campfire filled the air. Tents sat side by side. Festival goers lounged and milled and mingled in the campgrounds, creating a temporary community where strangers became friends, and musicians strummed guitars and banjos at all hours of the night.
Bluegrass is host to a variety of musical performers, from the professional to the beginner. There are four main stages that musicians perform on. Shows are scheduled until midnight. But when the official stages close, artists meander down to Stage 5, the most popular, unofficial stage that campers started.
This year Split Lip Rayfield, a crowd favorite, played at Stage 5, on the last night of the festival. Kirk Rundstrom, former lead singer of Split Lip Rayfield died in February, so the band played in his memory. The performance attracted several hundred people, and even after the stage closed at 3 a.m., musicians sparked jam sessions with strangers well into the morning hours.

But Bluegrass is over and many are adjusting back to reality. The swift shift is as sharp as a dagger. It's hard to fight the mental tug toward the week of drunken stupidity, great music and fun. To sooth the sting, many are reconnecting to artists saw and friends made through social networks like Myspace.

People have used the site to assemble pages in honor of stages, campsites, and musicians. Learned and the bus crews' campsite has its own page, as does Stage 7, (the newest unoffical stage) and a plethora of bluegrass musicians. The festival itself even has a page called "Winfield" with over 1,500 friends.

Now that the Internet supplies easy access to bluegrass artists and friends, maybe the next 50 weeks will pass by much more smoothly.