Happy October

Welcome to a month of beautiful fall colors, erratic weather and the tail end of the election season.

This month wraps up with Halloween, one of my all-time favorite holidays. It is an off-the-wall celebration that starts with the incredible sugar highs of childhood, then evolves into adult celebrations of unlimited forms.

I hope you enjoy the magic of October and the transition to winter.

Enjoy, stay safe, and thanks for your support!

Dennis "DJ" Quinn

---

Happy Halloween

This month I share the true story from Halloween 1980. It’s a life event shared by a couple guys that still brings us laughs today.

DJ Quinn with Little Brother Scott in October 1982

A Trick or A Treat?

A true story by Dennis “DJ” Quinn

At the ripe age of 23, I left Montana and took a job as a flight attendant in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The gig was great. It offered flexibility, lots of time off, and the chance to work flights throughout the US, Europe, and Asia. On my days off, I had plenty of time to kill, so I volunteered to become a Big Brother.

In March 1980, I was matched with Scott, an 11-year old boy being raised by his single mother Jennifer. Scott and I would get together for a few hours each week and hang out doing ‘guy things’. That included movies, bike rides, and going to sporting events. The idea was to share time together, build a friendship, and set a good example. Jennifer was enthusiastic about our match, and supported us in whatever we chose to do.

---

In October, I had planned to do something with Scott for Halloween. Unfortunately, I ended up being scheduled to fly.

“Hey Scott,” I mentioned the week before. “I’m not going to be here for Halloween. I have to fly.”

“That’s okay,” he responded.

“Are you going to go out trick-or-treating?” I asked.

“No. My mom is working late. I’m going to stay home by myself and give out candy.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Yeah. I have it planned out. I’m going to hang up a sheet to turn the hall inside our door into a scary room. I’ll be inside with the lights real low. I’m going to dress up. Then when kids come in for candy, I’ll scare them.”

I laughed. “Have you done that before?”

“Nope, it’s the first time. I know it will work.”

“Well have fun. I’ll be thinking about you when I’m on my trip.”

---

The following morning I left on a 3-day trip. By the time I returned, I had picked up a nasty cold. I was scheduled to leave again the following day, but my head was congested and my ears were plugged. I called in sick for the second trip and went to bed. I woke the next day (Halloween) at home, feeling better but still congested. By midday, a restlessness started stirring inside me. Here it was Halloween, I was home with nothing to do, and I knew Scott was home by himself.

“How would I feel if I was home alone on Halloween when I was 11 years old?” I wondered. Would I want to be alone?” The answer was NO. So I decided to go surprise Scott. Since I needed a Halloween costume, that afternoon I headed to Target.

Two hours later, I was almost ready. As I wrapped the final three layers of masking tape over the four rolls of toilet paper that were strung around every inch of my body, The Mummy came to life. The Mummy added more tape around the neck, then a few strips over the top of his head. He made one more pass down his forehead, across his face to his chin, then back up the other side. Finally he taped in two oversized plastic eyeballs, each with dime-sized vision holes in the center. Red blood vessels ran horizontally across the bulging eye balls, adding the costume’s only color.

With every inch of his body tightly wrapped in toilet paper and tape, The Mummy looked in the mirror and bellowed, “Perfect!” Then, moving like the Pillsbury Dough Boy crippled with severe joint pain, The Mummy shuffled toward the car.

---

Twenty minutes later, darkness was falling as The Mummy parked at Scott’s apartment complex. Knowing Scott was handing out candy at his unit’s front door, The Mummy shuffled around to the back. In the darkness, he stepped on Scott’s patio and reached for the sliding door. Slowly, silently, he slid the door open.

Inside, a trace of dim light glowed from behind a sheet that was hung to separate the foyer from the living area. Muffled sounds drifted from inside Scott’s “scary room”. The Mummy moved one foot inside the apartment, then slowly followed with the other. Suddenly a voice bellowed from behind the curtain.

“Just take one!” Scott’s spooky voice commanded. The Mummy heard footsteps running away.

As the children ran off, The Mummy shuffled forward, inching nearer toward the curtain.

“Trick or Treat!” Another group of kids had arrived. Scott growled, the kids screamed, and The Mummy moved closer.

As the children grabbed their candy and bolted, The Mummy moved right behind the sheet. Scott was giggling, standing just inches away on the other side of the sheet. Scott was alone. He was relaxed. And he was waiting….

The Mummy grabbed the sheet, ripped it open and screamed. AHHHHHH! He moved toward Scott, arms outstretched, shuffling erratically. The Mummy approached Scott and screamed again. AHHHHHH!

Scott took one look, turned, and dashed out the door.

“SOMEBODY’S IN HERE, SOMETHING’S IN HERE!” His screams echoed down the hall. “SOMEBODY IS IN MY APARTMENT!”

The Mummy shuffled out into the hall. Scott stood at the far end of the long hallway dazed, confused, and terrified. All along the hall separating Scott from The Mummy, residents flew out their doors. They looked back and forth. No one moved. No one said a word. The moment was frozen in time.

“Scott! Scott, it’s me,” The Mummy yelled. No response.

“Scott, it’s me. Dennis, your Big Brother!” The Mummy was choking back laughter as he waved his tape-stiffened arm.

“It’s me Scott. Come on back here.”

Scott didn’t move. He just stared.

“It’s just me Scott. Your Big Brother.”

Finally, Scott stepped forward. It him took five minutes to walk down the hall. When he reached his apartment, he was still breathing heavily.

“You scared me so bad,” Scott hissed. “I couldn’t tell what it was!”

“I just wanted to come and wish you Happy Halloween!”

“I thought you were gone out of town!”

“I was supposed to be on a trip,” I explained. “But I called in sick. So I came to visit.”

“How…how did you get in my apartment?” His eyes were locked on the bulging bloodshot plastic eyes.

“Through the sliding door. It was unlocked.”

“Sheese!” he huffed as he let out a sigh. “You scared me. You really scared me bad!”

Scott finally settled down once we got in the apartment. More kids stopped by, a few looking for candy; most were just curious to find out what had happened.

“It was my Big Brother,” he told them. “He sneaked in and scared me. He thought it was a good joke.”

---

It was, in fact, a great joke. A fabulous prank. It wasn’t until The Mummy became Big Brother as he peeled off the toilet paper and tape on the drive home that I had second thoughts.

I can’t believe I did that. An 11-year old kid is home alone. Some guy with bug eyes all wrapped up in toilet paper and tape sneaks up behind him? What the Hell was I thinking.

Actually, what I was thinking was that it was hilarious. No telling what Jennifer would say when she came home and found out about the stunt. My guess was that she would laugh, which is exactly what happened.

That spontaneous Big Brother/Little Brother Halloween celebration was worth it. Scott is now in his mid-fifties, and we still laugh about that night. Each year his family puts up great outdoor Halloween decorations. Their primary focus is to scare the kids who show up looking for free candy.

Maybe I did set a good example on that dark Halloween night. It’s heartwarming to know that even though Scott still hates mummies, he loves celebrating Halloween by scaring kids. Just like his Big Brother once did.

Stay safe, and enjoy Halloween.

---

Welcome to Football Season

Happy September! This is the glorious month when Summer gives way to Football Season. Five months of non-stop football, a season designed to give Americans like me a distraction from election season. But, you ask, what about all the election ads on football broadcasts?

My suggestion? Take a deep breath and ignore the election fury. Then visualize all the money from those ads flowing into the pockets of a billionaire owner of your favorite pro team. Or better yet, picture the cash being forked over to the pay-for-play "student athletes" on your college team to keep them away from the transfer portal.

If that doesn't calm you down, try slamming down some of the beers advertised during the game. From the looks of it, apparently that is the sure path to a carefree life!

Enjoy Football Season, stay safe, and thanks for your support! Dennis "DJ" Quinn

---

Trying to cope with a college football fan?

It's a fact: For the next few months the college football fans in your life will slip into an alternate reality. They will adopt a tribal mentality, their lives focused on teams they worship in the spotlight of sports TV. Are these people driving you crazy? If so, this description from USA Today columnist Dan Wolken may help you understand:

...Every college football fan has chosen to invest their happiness, their money and their time in following a certain program. Sometimes that choice was merely the byproduct of going to college, or perhaps it was handed down from parents or grandparents. But at some point, everyone who becomes an emotional wreck every Saturday made a conscious decision to care deeply about a sport where 18-to-22 year-olds hit each other and toss around an oblong ball.

There's one problem, though, that they don't tell you about until it's too late. As a college football fan, your well-being is going to be disproportionately dependent on the choices that others make. Even worse, most of those choices are going to look very stupid in retrospect... (Dan Wolken, USA Today, Sept. 1, 2024)

Good luck, enjoy Football Season, and Go Huskies!

---

Getting High on God

By DJ Quinn

This little reflection is for my nieces and nephews to give them a better understanding of why all nine of us Quinn kids loved to go to church every Sunday.

In the days before mini-vans roamed the earth, God had created the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. This was a Hell of a station wagon, equipped with non-opening sunroofs above the “back seat” and tinted glass windows along the roof-line in the “very back”. Designed to carry six passengers and their gear comfortably, the Vista Cruiser was the perfect machine to carry the eleven members of the Quinn family to the our parish church, the Cathedral of St. Helena.

“How,” the next generation is bound ask, “How did they all fit? Where did they put all the car seats?”

An understandable question from a generation of kids who have grown up believing automobiles don’t work unless every member of the family is strapped or bolted to the body of the car.  For these children, who are afraid to even sit on the toilet without wearing a bicycle helmet, it is impossible to visualize 11 people traveling to the Cathedral in a single Vista Cruiser.

Our family went to the same Mass each Sunday. We went to whichever Mass was scheduled to begin 15 minutes after Dad woke us up. Nothing, nothing puts one in a holier mood than being told, “Get up, it’s time to go.”

Much chanting and speaking in tongues would take place as we tried to assemble ourselves and stumble to the Vista Cruiser. The final few minutes always included a body count to determine who was missing. Some kid just settling into their seat would have to jump out of the Vista Cruiser, run back into the house, and scream, “Hurry Up. We’re leaving!”

The fires of Hell were cooler than the mood in the Vista Cruiser as we roared out of the driveway. Dad would drive with Mom seated on the passenger side, and between them was the first kid to make it into the car that morning. The rest of us were jostling with each other in back.

A dark cloud of collective grumpiness would fill the back of the car as we pulled out. Yet each week, somewhere along Benton Avenue between Euclid and the Civic Center, the voices of sin would be silenced. It was there along this holy stretch of Benton Avenue that the Angel of the Lord, seated in the passenger side of the front seat, would reach into her purse. Confident she was doing God’s work, she would whip out the Aqua Net hairspray and unleash chemical warfare on the forces of evil.

Aqua Net, for the unfamiliar, is one of three over-the counter products resulting from a catastrophic chemical reaction that takes place in a factory somewhere “Out-of-State.” A tub of chemicals mixes, bubbles, burps and ferments. Then like magic the goo separates to produce Off! Insect Repellent, Emarude Perfume (a favorite of our Aunt Jean), and Aqua Net Hairspray--available in a pink, silver and black spray can decorated with a fish-net motif.  Suggested retail price for Aqua Net back then was about 15 cents for a five-gallon drum.

As the sinners started to scream, the Lord’s Handmaiden started spraying the Aqua Net. First on her bangs, then a bit on the side. A quick glance in the mirror on the visor followed by a major blast at Dennis. Another “psssst” on her bangs, two quick sprays at Kelly, and a long, long squirt at Tim and Katie. One last quick pass over the other side of the hairdo was followed by a 15 second dusting of the back seat.

This was, of course, a glorious miracle as it was all done without Mom even turning her head. And Satan Be Damned! It was a mortal sin to roll down a window for air because the wind might ruin Mom’s hairdo.

Who needs car seats? By the time we reached the Cathedral we were all limp rag dolls, lying on the seat or floor, gasping for air. We could have had a head-on collision with a semi-truck and none of us floating in our Aqua Net stupor would have felt a thing. We arrived at church and piled out of the car. As we ran toward the church, we begged God for mercy and a little bit of fresh air.

Yes, the Quinns arrived at Mass. Dad looked relaxed, Mom looking dashing with nary a hair out of place, and we kids just looked at the massive stained glass windows in the cathedral. Higher than kites from inhaling Aqua Net fumes, all of us would watch the figures in those windows come to life.

The Saints would dance, whirl around, and do a few cartwheels. The Apostles would make faces at the priest and pass gas at the Last Supper Table. Perhaps it was a sense of deep spirituality that engulfed us. Most likely, we were all just really, really stoned. Whatever the case, before long we would settle back in our pews, take in the show, and begin to whisper our praises.

“Oh Jesus! This is great!”

Olympic Games ~ A Reflection

View fullsize

DJ Quinn’s reflection on Olympic Games played in the summer.

You might not understand what camping has to do with the Boston Marathon. But if you have ever camped with, or near, a family of nine kids, you might have seen (or heard) it happening.

It’s the competition. It was on family road trips that my siblings learned to compete. Mile after mile we fought for seats in the car. At night we wrestled for places to sleep. We had fist fights over the last donut or cookie. And when Dad pulled off the road to restore order, we fought over who caused all the chaos.

Our family camping trips were, in fact, a "Camping Olympics”. We trained at home, perfecting our skills in wrestling, running, and harassing each other. When we hit the road, our training paid off. Camping freed us to battle one another outside the confines of home, without our parents acting as referees.

My parents knew competition would be intense when we traveled. Before we left on a camping trip, they issued us Camping Olympic uniforms. These were sweatshirts, and each kid wore a different color. Color-coding prevented fights about who owned which sweatshirt. It also helped Mom and Dad remember who-was-who.

The uniforms had strict wearing regulations, known as "Three in/Three out." No matter how much mud wrestling, swimming, or sweating we did, we had to wear the uniforms for three consecutive days. On the fourth day, they were turned inside-out and worn inside-out for the next three days. Our family Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser stunk like a moving locker room. When the uniforms finally were washed, they were worn Three in/Three out again on the trip home.

The Camping Olympics were held at "The Madison”. To this day, I don’t know exactly where The Madison was located. It was a God-forsaken spot in Montana, somewhere before the Madison, Jefferson, and Gallatin rivers hooked up to form the Missouri.

It was a desolate spot indeed. The Native Americans didn't want to live there. Lewis and Clark took one look and moved on. Early pioneers passed up offers of free land at The Madison. Except for mosquitoes, flies, and some snakes, we were the only living creatures ever to stay at The Madison. Which was exactly the reason my parents loved it.

The average temperature there was around 100 degrees in the shade. And since my parents never chose a camping spot with trees, the temperature in the shade was irrelevant. The Madison was scorching hot and was infested with rattlesnakes. According to my parents, the rattlesnakes were so big they “could swallow kids whole”.

Every day, Dad would head to the river to go fishing, reminding us for final time about the snakes before he trotted off. Being petrified of the rattlers, none of us would tag after him. In all the years camping at The Madison, no one (including Dad) ever saw a rattlesnake. But the lurking snakes did their job—they gave our father some quiet time alone.

Mom might have braved the rattlesnakes to go with my father, but she hated fishing. Her passion was organizing the Olympic games. With unlimited imagination, she kept us occupied and prevented us from killing each other. Minor Olympic events varied — some card games, relay races, and water fights. But in my mother’s eyes, the focus of our Camping Olympics should be baseball.

Baseball. Standing in the hot August sun, dressed in our sweatshirts, we swatted mosquitoes and played baseball. Each game started with the few siblings who were in a good mood singing The Star-Spangled Banner. The rest of us, who had been shoved out of the wrong side of the sleeping bag that morning, just stood there. That moment wasn’t about patriotism, it simply served to raise tempers and irritate the competition.

And then we played baseball. Green, red, yellow, and blue against black, pink, brown and purple. Three hits. Two outs, and a brawl about a strike call. A time-out called for more mosquito spray.

Then pink, green, red and purple played black, blue, brown and yellow. On and on it wore, inning after inning, day after day. Baseball. In the sweltering heat at The Madison, my brothers and sisters learned to hate baseball, mosquitoes, and rattlesnakes. But we learned to love competition, and in the long run, how to love one another.

The best part of Camping Olympics was that we competed for fun. Nobody really cared who won. Until that fateful night when our parents violated our Olympic code. We were sitting around the campfire when the folks announced they had a surprise. They pulled out the first-ever “Good Traveler Award”. My sister Mazie won that single award. The other eight of us tied for dead-ass last place. Which is the reason our lives have never been the same.

It wasn’t Mazie's fault, but that Good Traveler prize ruined our Camping Olympics. We still played games on later camp-outs, but by then Mazie was on a mission, always gunning for more prizes. Since the night she won the one-and-only Good Traveler award, she has run hundreds of races. She has won countless trophies, ribbons, medals, turkeys and even a cheeseball or two.

My other siblings and I have no use for prizes. The night all of us losers missed the award podium in the Good Travelers competition, our focus changed. We decided we would all compete for laughs and let Mazie run after the prizes.

Years after our last camp-out at The Madison, I was a spectator when Mazie ran the Boston Marathon. As she slowly jogged past me at mile #21, I jumped into the race to join her. It was like being back at The Madison. Everyone was hot. Everyone was sweating, stinking, and ignoring the yelling crowd. I even felt an urge to sing The Star-Spangled Banner to make Mazie run faster.

As we crossed the finish line in downtown Boston, my mind flashed back to The Madison. Mazie put her finisher's medal around her neck, then ran to a Porta-potty to throw up. I enjoyed the free food they were passing out to runners. As I stepped over passed-out racers and chomped on free donuts, I was thrilled that I had “finished” the Boston Marathon.

And in that post-race chaos, I heard my late mother’s sweet voice. She was whispering in my head repeating the sacred rule she tried to teach us at our childhood Camping Olympics. “Never forget kids-- the one who has the most fun wins!”

An Interview With DJ Quinn

Listen to an interview with DJ Quinn on the Big E.D. Idea podcast, February 12, 2024.
Click below to hear interview.

Big ED Idea Podcast, February 12, 2024

Heading Into 2024

Here we are launching into 2024 with frigid weather hitting most of the country. It’s a chilly 22 degrees here today in Gig Harbor. Yet after looking at the weather map, we are lucky the 22 degrees is ABOVE zero.

Last weekend I ventured to Houston TX for the college football national championship game. It was a great trip even though my Washington Huskies ended up on the short end of the score. Then yesterday Washington’s head coach bolted to the University of Alabama to take their head coaching position. Only time will tell the impact of that move for the Huskies.

For me, the beginning of the year always brings a welcome return of routine to life. It is also the starting line for a fresh writing project. Various ideas and inspirations are floating around in my head, and several of those have already evolved into initial drafts.

My debut memoir, Stick Figures: A Big Brother Remembers, was published December 15th. It felt great to reach the finish line and get the book published. The Stick Figures book has been selling well, and it is rewarding to share the journey my Little Brother Mike and I traveled. The attached photo is of the beginning of the bike ride that is featured in Stick Figures in the chapter titled The Speedometer.

January is National Mentor Month, a national effort to help folks understand the benefits of various forms of mentoring, and to encourage people to volunteer their time and skills.

To that end, I encourage you to read Stick Figures: A Big Brother Remembers. This true story illustrates the impact the mentoring experience Mike and I shared had on both of our lives. Stick Figures: A Big Brother Remembers is available on my website DJQuinnauthor.com, or on Amazon.com.

Stay warm! I wish you all the best in 2024.

DJ Quinn

Stick Figures: A Big Brother Remembers

It’s another fantastic fall day in the Pacific Northwest-- sunny, warm and plenty of trees showcasing magnificent colors. Yesterday marked 25 years since I moved from Seattle to Gig Harbor. I still love the slower pace of life here in south Puget Sound.

Yesterday was also the birthday of my late “Little Brother” Michael, who would have turned 38 years old. I am excited that my memoir of our time together, Stick Figures: A Big Brother Remembers, is moving steadily toward publication. In the process of writing the book I have been able to revisit times Mike and I shared together. Our 13-year adventure started when Mike was just 7-years old. The photo attached to this post was taken during a sledding trip at Snoqualmie Pass east of Seattle when Mike was 10-years old.

Final editing of the manuscript begins next week. Over the past several weeks, several volunteers with a variety of backgrounds helped by being “beta readers”, reading through the draft and offering valuable suggestions and ideas. Their help was invaluable, and their input was critical in smoothing out the story line and presentation.

Enjoy October and the change of the seasons. Savor some time outdoors – winter is bound to sneak up and surprise us.

All the Best,

DJ Quinn

Welcome!

It all begins with an idea. An idea that occupies the mind, but often just fades away. On rare occasions, however, the idea moves into the heart. From there, it stirs occasionally and evolves from an idea to an inspiration that needs to be addressed.

Which is exactly what happened here. The desire to share my writing, to tell the tales that have added texture to my Life Journey, has brought me here.

Later this year, I will publish Stick Figures, A Big Brother Remembers. The work is a tribute to my Little Brother Mike and the times we shared over 13 years in our match through the Big Brothers mentoring program.

Stay tuned for additional information on publication dates and additional information about the book. I am excited to share the story and our adventures with you.