Remembering Anna and Jake's wedding on the land at The River Runs Through

This summer, Anna, Jake, and their eight-month-old son, Elias, came to visit. At some point, Anna remembered sitting on the bench beneath the arbor, now fully enclosed by the blackberry bushes her twin brother, Niles, had planted just days before her wedding. She mused, almost to herself, we’re going to get another picture there, referring to her, Jake & Elias.

I looked at the arbor bench and thought about how much had changed in those four years.

I’ve had mixed feelings about Halloween my entire life.

I was always eager to imagine who I could be—or what—yet Halloween itself always seemed to fall short of my aspirations.

Trick-or-treating became scary at some point in the 1980s. Razor blades in candy. You didn’t have to tell me this more than once.

I tried Halloween a few more times in my teens, but it wouldn’t be until my kids were old enough to pick out their own pumpkins that Halloween became something I really looked forward to.

Our policy was simple: you could have as big a pumpkin as you could carry.

It was a great policy until about age 13. In fairness, no one ever tried to take advantage of it, and the pumpkins could always fit in the car.

The excitement of costumes began long before the actual trick-or-treating yielded much candy.

My eldest son was Buzz Lightyear for three Halloweens—and he slept in his costume between those years!

My youngest son was Woody. He slept with his boots on and wore that darn red hat to preschool.

My daughter, although excited about Halloween, was less impressed about dressing up. We would reimagine her recital costumes instead. Much like a wedding dress—you pay all that money to wear it once?

Then we discovered, quite by accident, speed trick-or-treating.

I love homework.

Yes, you read that correctly. I love homework. If I could have just done homework in school and never been required to show up for the mind-numbing, pedantic classes, where at best I was bored, I probably would have learned so much more. Instead, due to a combination of being highly sensitive and not yet understanding what that meant for me, I often sat in class feeling trapped. Trapped. Terrified, actually. My eyes were trained on the door while I glanced at the clock, which seemed to be my enemy because it never moved quickly enough. Eventually, we'd be let out of class, only to be bullied, teased, or generally made to feel less than. So yes, if school could have simply sent me the homework, I would have been happy. I would have learned. I would have done the work. I would have loved it.

Which is why it was a little surprising that, at the end of our first gathering at Anam Cara, I was given homework that I really, really didn't want to do.