Eliminating the Final Comma

My friend Sue posted this from the Grammar Police website.

And it reminded me of my own struggle for eliminating that final comma in a series.

Of final pauses, & final endings.

I realized for the first time:  the final comma is only a good thing if you are ready to read it.

That final comma, that final pause, is a threshold.

A threshold for transgression or for transformation. 

We all stand on that threshold, waiting for the final comma.

A comma which demands a choice from each of us.  To transform or transgress.

For years I have accepted that final comma.  In a series.  In my life.

Now, I want no final pause, no ending.  Unless it offers a threshold.

I still want final commas to indicate closure.  

But I want the possibility of walking across the threshold.

Mummy Dogs

Each year since the year I took the vow of ignoring Halloween, I find myself grieving a bit more about the void left by its absence.

A series of Halloween incidents provoked my decision to take vows of abstinence from a holiday I adore.  Beyond dealing with adults in & out of costume holding out pillow cases for candy, beyond children & parents who never learned to say please & thank you, one unfortunate event ruined Halloween for Jaki Jean.

During one of the final years of Halloween at 11802 Dorrance Lane, I ran out of candy.  Although I had stocked up for weeks in anticipation of the hoards of pirates & princesses & goblins & ghosts that are shipped into Meadows Place, the invasion of families seeking a safe place to take their tricksters & treaters exceeded all expectations. 

Assisted by my brother John's children, I began to extinguish the candles in the spooky luminaries lining the yard.  A van stopped in front of the house & a group of little & not so little greedy ones descended onto the sidewalk, in search of more candy to be deposited in their already swelling bags & pumpkins & pillow cases. 

Apologizing to the expectant faces before me, I explained that I had run out of candy & began rolling my grandmother Sims' iron pot (which had doubled brilliantly as a cauldron for my witch costume) back toward the front porch.  The greedy goblins turned to the adult with them for instructions.  

A brief exchange occurred & the young woman in charge followed me into the yard & halted my attempt to return my cauldron to its proper place.

"You aren't out of candy," she stated & I assured her that this was not the case.  I was out of candy.

She moved closer, invading my personal space (always a big mistake), & in a voice raised several octaves & decimals, shouted, "You don't want to give them candy because we are Mexican!"

I looked across the yard to find my niece & nephew, halted in their retrieval of the spooky bags of sand & extinguished candles, watching what was escalating into a scene with a crowd of onlookers. 

My very beautiful & very biracial niece & nephew.  Caucasian sperm, Chicana egg – beautiful babies.

I was incensed – a complete stranger, armed without any more information other than I was a Caucasian woman living in a safe middle-class neighborhood, accused me of racism, specifically a prejudice against Mexicans.  A stranger who knew nothing of my background or my beliefs or my family.  I wanted to scream out Are you fucking kidding me?  Look at these children with me.

Instead, I told her to get off my property.

OK, I probably told her to get the fuck off my property or I would call the police.

She moved to the side walk, emitting forth a series of expletives in Spanish, as if I did not recognize the meaning of puta  or perra  or coño.

  

Then a Meadows Place police car cruised slowly by & my accuser gathered her goblins into the van, pausing long enough to give me the finger.

The children & I went back into the house to watch movies, gorge on candy & eat the feast I left for us on the kitchen table.

Although I tried for several years after The Night of the Living Accusation, Halloween was never quite the same.   So I stopped decorating, stopped carving pumpkins, stopped buying massive quantities of candy & goodies.

But every once in a while, during the weeks leading up to the event, something hits me right in the center of the note & I long for another evening of princesses & pirates & ghosts & goblins.

This year, that something is Mummy Dogs.

Little creepy creatures created with crescent rolls & hot dogs & eyes of mustard drops.

And I want a Halloween before The Night of the Living Accusation. 

    

I want a night of luminaries & carved pumpkins, a table laden with  Eye of Grapes, Queso dotted with bits of spicy brain salsa, finger(ling potatoes) for dipping, bowls of nuts & goldfish, too many cookies, and Mummy Dogs.

I want to open the door, distribute yummy candy & once again have a wizard point to the sign next to the door stating Potions Sold Here, & with a smile & a twinkle in his eyes, request:

"I'd like a potion, please."

Mummy Dogs hit right at the center of the note of longing.