Writer Holly Morse-Ellington recounts a night of spooky signals, her first and last experience Ouija-boarding as a kid. Happy Halloween, everybody, from Baltimore Fishbowl!
Thanksgivings in Chicago could be a serious snooze compared to most of our family holidays. For one, sharing the backseat of a midsize car with my brother during the seven-hour drive from Kentucky to our dad’s family in Chicago made us tired and cranky. For another, by the time we’d reacquainted ourselves with our cousins, it was time to go back home. Chicago is an exciting big city compared to the rinky-dink town we lived in, but more often than not we passed the weekend restricted to my aunt and uncle’s conservative suburban home. The entertainment highlight: Uncle Sid’s colorful reactions to his VHS recordings of Bears games. Thanksgiving was more like detention among members of The Breakfast Club than holiday from school. Of the five of us cousins forced together, I was the pipsqueak of the bunch and struggled the most to fit in. But one particular Thanksgiving, when I was 11 and the other cousins were high schoolers, I was up for doing anything to prove that I was cool and mature too. That anything turned out to be a maturing experience for all of us kids.