I always love my mama

Ann Jarvis was a Sunday school teacher in Taylor County, West Virginia in the late 19th century. One particular Sunday, Ann closed her lesson with a prayer, offering: "I hope and pray that someone, sometime, will found a memorial mothers day commemorating her for the matchless service she renders to humanity in every field of life. She is entitled to it." Ann's daughter, Anna, found great inspiration from her mother's words and devoted her life to her mother's honor and sentiment.

After college, Anna briefly joined her beloved mother in the church, working as a teacher, but soon she pursued an opportunity that brought her to Philadelphia. Anna found success as the first female literary and advertising editor at the Fidelity Mutual Life Insurance Company. Later, she became a shareholder in the Quaker City Cab Company, her brother's business. Although she was over three hundred miles away, Anna remained close with her dear mother, corresponding regularly by mail. When Anna's father passed away, Anna convinced her mother to move to Philadelphia and she did so reluctantly. However, Ann Jarvis's health was in a steady decline, forcing Anna to devote the majority of her time to taking care of her ailing mother. Ann Jarvis died on May 9, 1905 at the age of 71. Anna was heartbroken.

Three years after her mother's death, Anna arranged for a memorial service at her mother's church in West Virginia. Anna could not attend, though she ordered five hundred white carnations to be distributed to all in attendance. Anna, herself, spoke at a simultaneous ceremony held in the auditorium at the John Wanamaker Department store in Philadelphia. Anna's heartfelt words brought the crowd to tears. The day — May 10 — was designated as the first official Mother's Day. On May 8, 1914, President Woodrow Wilson signed a congressional resolution designating the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day. Anna was extremely protective of the holiday and took its celebration personally.

Save it, you ungrateful jerk.

In subsequent years, Anna fought tirelessly and viciously against the apparent commercialization of Mother's Day. She brazenly expressed her disgust with the floral, confection and greeting card industries. She publicly railed against making sentimentality a commodity, announcing: "A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother — and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment." Anna staged protests against the celebration of Mother's Day. In 1943, she organized a petition to officially rescind Mother's Day. However, her efforts came to an end when she was mysteriously placed in a sanitarium in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Executives from within the flower and greeting card industries paid the bills to keep her institutionalized. Anna Jarvis died on November 24, 1948. She never married nor did she have any children.

Now, call your mother and tell her you love her.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

from a park you can hear the happy sounds from a carousel

Early on Sunday morning, Mrs. P and I hopped in the car and headed up the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Somewhere along the way, we must have driven through a time portal. That was our conclusion when we pulled into the expansive, grass-covered parking lot of Knoebels.

Does your theme park have a giant cake?

Tucked away in a pastoral wooded area known as "Peggy's Valley" when it first opened its gates in 1926, Knoebels is something of an anachronistic anomaly. It hearkens back to a time when families would pack a wicker picnic basket filled with sandwiches, potato salad and big jug of lemonade for an al fresco meal in a tree-lined grove. When little kids would get excited to ride on a beautifully carved and painted wooden horse to the soundtrack of the calliope, breathlessly churning out an "oompah oompah" rhythm. When older boys and girls would race to grab the coveted first car of the roller coaster, then dare each other to loosen their grip on the safety bar as they "wooshed" down the rickety hills and thrilling curves. Well, that still exists at Knoebels, despite the advancement in amusement ride technology and engineering and the sprawl of modern theme parks.

Does Disney
know about this?

However, Knoebels very existence is a real head-scratcher. Parking at Knoebels is free and there is no admission charge to pass through the entrance. The park still uses paper tickets for rides and each ride is individually priced. The roller coasters and similar thrill rides cost a mere three dollars to ride. A spin through the award-winning* Haunted Mansion will set you back two dollars and the kiddie rides (a lot of 'em and they all looked looked like a whole lotta fun!) are just a buck! From the sounds of squeals and screams, riders seemed to be having the time of their lives.

As we strolled through the oddly-configured walkways, we saw smiles everywhere. Smiling parents. Smiling teens. Smiling children. This is a notable contrast to the anger-filled Dad berating his crying children at the entrance to Disney's Magic Kingdom. ("Do you know how much this goddamn trip is costing me? Stop that goddamn crying RIGHT NOW! You're gonna have a good time if I have to beat one out of you!" Happiest Place on Earth, indeed.)

Penny candy? What year is this?

We saw a couple of free shows — a hokey ventriloquist telling lame jokes, and later, a delightful improv fairy tale, featuring costumed narrators and enthusiastic audience participation. We watched kids ride on kiddie rides that we rode on as children. An arcade attendant set us up with a few free games of Fascination, an old-time arcade game with rubber balls and flashing lights, sort of like Bingo. We won a pair of licorice whips and a plastic dinosaur. I bought a soft pretzel and my wife bought a handful of penny candy from a huge display, the likes of which we had not seen since we were kids. The posted prices for food were so incredibly cheap, I thought they may have been misprints. We were quite content to meander along the winding paths that transverse the self-proclaimed "America's largest free admission amusement park," and I decided that this place was for people who have never heard of Walt Disney World. And, unlike that famous Florida theme park, we spent a grand total of four dollars over the course of our five-hour visit. (We opted not to go on any rides.)

This actually defies explanation.

In these days of bigger and better, theme parks plan and devise ways to outdo their competition. With 3D simulators whose seats vibrate to triple-looping roller coasters to ultra-themed attractions that immerse the rider into the middle of their favorite movie, TV show or comic strip, industry heavyweights like Disney, Universal and Six Flags constantly vie for increased attendance and increased income.

So, is there still room in this world for a place like Knoebels?

Well, the abundant smiles and laughter told me: "yes."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*It has been named a favorite for over 10 years by Dark Ride and Funhouse Enthusiasts. There's an organization for everyone!

I heard it through the grapevine

Stop trying to get me to eat raisins. I don't like them. Nobody likes them. If people like them so goddamn much, how come you have to keep hiding them in food? I'll tell you why... 'cause nobody likes raisins.

When I was a kid, my mom's favorite candy bar was Chunky. She loved Chunky Bars, that foil-wrapped square of dense milk chocolate (easily mistaken for a dose of Ex-Lax, so she was careful where she stored them). The problem with Chunky was: hidden in that thick, inviting block of chocolate were raisins. They weren't visible, like the almonds in a Hershey Almond bar or the sandpaper-like appearance of the underside of a Nestle Crunch (both of which I liked, so I didn't mind the attempted cloaking of a supplemental ingredient). No, those raisins were deep inside, away from the smooth exterior, just patiently waiting to fill the mouth of an unsuspecting chocolate-lover with distaste and disappointment.

On Sunday mornings, my dad liked to wake up early (actually, my dad liked to wake up early every morning) and go out to get sticky buns from Bauer's Bakery. Sometimes, I would accompany him. I loved to watch those stout, gray-haired ladies behind the chrome and glass display cases. They'd bump into each other and reach across each other's hunched backs as they filled customer orders in the impossibly-narrow work space. Sometimes, one of the women would spot me, smile, wink and announce in a thick, unplaceable, Old World accent, "Give that little girl a cookie." (It was the 1960s and, much to my father's chagrin and my mother's delight, I had shoulder-length hair.) As I munched my free cookie, the lady would fit a glistening square of golden brown sticky buns — dripping with syrupy glaze — into a plain white cardboard box and then bind it tightly with string from an overhead dispenser. When we got home, my dad would cut the string with a steak knife and that box lid would spring open. I'd eagerly pull one of those sugary beauties away from its conjoined neighbors and take a big bite. Ugh! Raisins! Hidden on the bottom! Those treacly pastries were supported by a double-thick foundation of raisins! Of course they were concealed beneath the appeal of cinnamon-swirled, sweetness-blanketed, yeasty dough. If they put the raisins right there on top, for every customer to see, no one would buy them. And since some supply manager obviously ordered way too many raisins, they have to get rid of them somehow. So, if they tuck a bunch under their popular sticky buns and still call them "sticky buns" and not "raisin sticky buns," no one will know... at least not until they get them home.

The worst is when they try to sneak raisins into cookies, taking full advantage of their look-alike qualities to chocolate chips. How many times I've made my selection from an offering of assorted cookies, thinking I was choosing one filled with chocolate-chips, only to discover the unmistakable gummy texture and pasty taste of — you guessed it — raisins!... after just one bite.

There better not be any raisins in here.

My mother-in-law makes a delicious kugel, a sort-of casserole made with egg noodles, cottage cheese, sour cream, cinnamon and sometimes apples. It is good when served either hot or cold, but it is usually ruined by the addition of one ingredient. Wanna guess what that ingredient is? I'll give you a hint... it's raisins! And my mother-in-law gets sneaky about it, too. She knows (like every other "raisin-adder") that nobody likes raisins, so one must be devious about their unwelcome inclusion in any recipe. My mother-in-law uses the dreaded golden raisins in her kugel, so they blend in stealthily with the yellow of the noodles. Innocent dinner guests shovel a heaping forkful into their mouths, never suspecting what awaits them once they begin to chew. I suppose my mother-in-law gets a good chuckle out of it. Same goes for my father-in-law's home-baked challah. Why do you think the plain challah is more popular than version with raisins? Um... 'cause it doesn't have raisins!

At Halloween time, what kid cheers when they find a box of raisins mixed in with their Reeses Cups and Kit Kat Bars? Raisins always evoke a crestfallen "awwww" once discovered at the bottom of a trick-or-treat bag. Then, they are discarded with the empty wrappers, crumbs, lint and other undesirables by the second week of November.

Hey kids! Please like me!

In the 80s, the California Raisin Advisory Board (who knew there even was such an organization?) introduced a lovable gang of cartoon characters called the California Raisins, to stir awareness of the wonderful properties of raisins... what ever they may be. (Vitamins? minerals? chewiness?). This cute and endearing troupe of animated singers, dancers and musicians captured the hearts of children. They didn't make raisins taste any better, but they were pretty popular characters. Raisins, however, were still raisins. Despite the concerted effort by the Raisin Growers to convince us that those wrinkled little nuisances were "Nature's Candy," we soon found out what we knew all along — "candy" was actually "Nature's Candy." Raisins are not.

Plus, they look like rabbit shit.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tender lumplings everywhere

When I was a kid, my favorite holiday, aside from my birthday, was Hallowe'en. I would begin thinking about my costume somewhere around the time I came home from trick-or-treating that year. I would begin to give serious thought to my costume as summer came to a close and I prepared my return to school. As autumn approached, I would narrow my selection down to a few choices and by October 1st, I'd start to gather the needed elements to bring my costume to fruition. By the second week of October, I'd drag out the family's box of Hallowe'en decorations. I'd methodically tape each tattered and worn cardboard pumpkin cutout and jointed cardboard skeleton in the exact position in the exact window as previous years. Once the big night arrived, I'd hurry through dinner and jump into my costume. I'd grab an old pillowcase and set out for my annual candy shakedown of the neighborhood. Trick-or-treating in my densely populated community was an all-night ritual. This was the 1960s and distribution of full-size candy bars was not uncommon, so several stops back home to drop off a load of sweets too heavy to drag around the block was to be expected. Once, a fellow Hallowe'ener reported on a house that was handing out full packages of six Hershey bars. That house had a line that remained steady into the late evening. Of course, the after-Hallowe'en surplus of candy sometimes lasted until Thanksgiving, until the few stray Mary Janes and sour balls that dotted the bottom of my picked-through bag were finally tossed into the trash.

When I was a teenager, and became too old to go knocking door-to-door, I'd stay home to hand out candy. I also decorated my house to elicit maximum scares from unsuspecting beggars. Pulling out all stops, I'd spend hours preparing Styrofoam tombstones, eerie flashing lights, prop figures in weird masks and a soundtrack of creepy music blasting through hidden speakers. Naturally, I was decked out in full vampire costume and makeup. I didn't give out a whole lot of candy, as kids were too frightened by the display. They felt a measly piece of candy wasn't worth getting the shit scared out of them. That was okay because it meant more leftovers for me.

In high school, I attended many Hallowe'en parties. Over the years, I wore a variety of costumes — Frank N. Furter from Rocky Horror, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (I refused to take off my make-up for the entire night), and even Gene Simmons, accompanying some friends who dressed as the remaining members of KISS (including my friend Sam).

When I got married and became a father, Hallowe'en continued in full force at the Pincus household. We had more Hallowe'en decorations than most people have for Christmas. Our house was transformed into that house, you know, the one that everyone looks forward to visiting because of the awesome way they celebrate the holiday. We had lights and music and animated figures and tons of candy. I took my son out at two months old, attired in Superman pajamas (him, not me). After a brief introduction to the fine art of confectionery extortion, we easily slipped him into his crib, already prepared for sleeping. As he got older, I created original and unique costumes for my son, including homemade Boris Badenov and Sonic the Hedgehog attire. I taught him to say "Trick-or-treat" and "Nothing with coconut." (Not because of a dietary restriction, because I don't like coconut.)

As time marched on, something happened. My son — in high school, then college — made other plans for Hallowe'en. We received less and less visitors. With younger kids making their rounds in the safer, daylight hours, the festivities began to trail off by nightfall. We stopped dragging out the box of decorations and, eventually, my wife sold the vintage stuff on eBay.

In 2010, we traveled to Disneyland to rekindle our love of Hallowe'en. Like giddy, rejuvenated children, we attended Mickey's Hallowe'en Party, a separately-ticketed event that converts the Magic Kingdom into a (not-so-scary) Hallowe'en Wonderland. My wife, my son and myself — three adults — had a blast wandering the darkened trails, interacting with costumed characters and other guest and receiving a huge amount of candy. We enjoyed ourselves so much, we went back the following year.

But Hallowe'en at home sucked. Few houses decorate. Few kids trick-or-treat... and those that do, don't even have the courtesy to put on a costume. ("What are you supposed to be?" "I'm a kid that just got off the school bus. Give me a goddamn Reeses Cup.")

Last year, we locked the door, turned off the porch light and ate the candy we bought to give out. This year, we're going to Las Vegas and I'm putting a "Go Fuck Yourself" sign on my front door.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com