The calendar turned to November a few days ago (a side note: does anyone use actual calendars anymore?) and that means a couple of things. First, it means that basketball season has started for me.

Without getting into the long story, I had a rather distinguished decade-long career as a high school Varsity basketball coach well before Tik-Tok and Instagram were on anyone’s mind. When we moved to Houston over nine years ago(!) I “was volunteered” to be the Junior Varsity coach at my sons’ high school. I put that in the passive voice since I had nothing to do with the decision–my wife “volunteered me” for the position all on her own.

Well, my younger son (of Sundays fame) is now a senior and I have been “promoted” to Head Varsity Assistant (I gave myself that title, in case you were wondering). It remains to be seen if this is my last year or not–I am hoping it is, but the head coach has told me it is not. Watch this space.

The other yearly occurrence that November initiates is the seemingly endless articles from knuckleheads like me proclaiming “The Perfect Thanksgiving Wine” (or some other similarly worded nonsense). Let me cut to the chase: There is no “perfect” Thanksgiving wine. Period.

Since this holiday, perhaps more than any other, means spending time with family, however, wine at the big meal is not only desired, it is required. But instead of telling you what to do, when selecting a bottle (or in my case, bottles, many, many bottles) for the big event, in this month’s Spring Branch Plus Magazine, I offer my thoughts on what not to drink on the fourth Thursday of November.

Click on the screenshot below to go directly to the article:

In my typical fashion, I also forgot to highlight last month’s article in the same publication, this one focused on the trauma I had growing up when it came to Halloween (also in my typical fashion, I can’t get the link to work, so here is the whole article in case you can’t sleep):

Halloween is not for Clowning Around

Growing up, I was not all that into Halloween. I am pretty sure that it stems from the fact that my mother insisted on making all of our costumes herself. That, in and of itself, would not have been all that bad since my mother was, and is, an incredible seamstress. As such, though, we could never be what most of our friends were: a Ghostbuster, a Stormtrooper, or a Landshark. Still, we would not have had all that much to complain about were it not for one simple fact.

We were always clowns.

Yes, clowns, as in the traditional sense: big billowy, colorful outfits with ill-fitting hats, but lacking the big red nose (since my mother refused to allow us to wear anything that she did not make herself).

So we were always clowns.

(Not my actual costume, but close.)

If that were not bad enough, I have three siblings (which meant four clowns–two boys, two girls) and at best one of us each year would get a new costume. A new clown costume. That meant I had three choices on a given year when I was not the chosen one to receive a new clown outfit:

1. Wear my costume from the previous year (which may have already been three years old and thus five sizes too small).
2. Wear one of my older brother’s costumes (despite his three-year advantage in age, I surpassed him in height by the time I was six and he regularly got some unseemly stain on his costume: grass, fruit punch, or melted Snickers).
3. Select one of the costumes that my older sister had outgrown. She is two years older than I, but I passed her by the time I was four and, well, she is a girl. Even though now I like to think I am fairly confident in my masculinity, she was a girl and her clown costume was therefore far too girly.

So, no matter what, I was a clown. A clown with either pants and sleeves four inches too short or a clown with pink and purple dots and a whole lot of lace.

Yeah. Talk about clownish.

Eventually, I grew out of Halloween and gave it up entirely as a young adult. Sure, I would go to the occasional Halloween party, but never in costume–A twenty something clown is decidedly not cool.

Not much changed once I got married, since I seem to have found the one person in the country who cares less about Halloween than I (I have not asked her why that is, but I am willing to bet that there is a clown involved in some way).

As with most aspects of my life, however, Halloween changed dramatically once we had children. Our first son was born in March, so he was a good seven months old when his first October rolled around, but I was less than enthusiastic about getting him involved in the “holiday.” Surprisingly, my wife pushed the issue and I eventually relented.

As long as he was not a clown.

That first Halloween as a parent was largely forgettable with one exception: the kids were collecting candy and the adults were doling out wine. I picked up a red Solo cup at the first stop and every time it emptied I would soon happen upon a house with more wine on offer. Ever since, I have looked forward to Halloween for what it is–not a huge candy grab for kids, but a progressive wine tasting for adults.

Both of my sons are now well past the Trick-or-Treat phase, but I will be partaking in the event, with a couple of wines to share with those adults that show up to our house, cup in hand. I’ll have one bottle of good but inexpensive wine that I will gladly dole out to all, regardless of their costume or if they are the neighbors with the incessantly barking dog. I will have a second, secret bottle of much nicer wine that I will reserve for me and a few select neighbors who I know will appreciate it.

As long as they are not dressed as clowns. Clowns will get nothing.