When I was 17, a woman gave me a zucchini. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Why are you laughing? What’s so funny about a zucchini? Zucchini jokes in the summer are like fruitcake jokes at Christmas:

“Did you hear the one about the lady who grew the world’s largest zucchini? It was so big, it stuck out the hatch and she couldn’t lock the car. Then she stopped for some things at the drug store, and when she came back to her car, something terrible had happened. Somebody had left her the second-largest zucchini, too!”

Pumpkins, yellow squash, sweet potatoes — they all produce prodigious amounts, leading gardeners to force free vegetables on their friends. Even cucumbers, which look just as goofy, are not as maligned as zukes.

The problem with zucchini is it grows from a tiny edible blossom to a 10-pound lump of bland green flesh in about 24 hours. You have to watch it carefully, to make sure it doesn’t take over your garden patch, and possibly, the entire world. There’s an idea there…keep reading.

Barry’s grandfather, Percy, had a younger brother who was famous for his practical jokes. In hindsight, they were pretty funny, but they nearly started several feuds. Milton knew that Percy was extremely particular about his pickle patch, and that he always picked the pickles when they were tiny and would bring the greatest price on the market. So one day, Milton snuck in a large zucchini and tucked it amongst the pickle plants. It was worth it, just to see the look on Percy’s face.

When I got out of high school, I had a job going door-to-door collecting signatures and money for a grassroots lobbying group. After talking the person into signing the petition, usually a little guilt was enough to capture a donation as well. One woman, in a small town in Ohio, signed the sheet, and then she said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Usually, that meant the person was going to find their wallet or piggy bank. I waited patiently.

To my surprise, she returned with a gigantic zucchini. “I don’t have any money, but please take this,” she said.

I was just a kid. I didn’t realize I’d been had. I thought she was giving me something of value. I couldn’t figure out why my supervisor and all my coworkers fell over laughing when I returned with this huge green log under my arm.

That night, my collection was dreadfully low, because after the zucchini, I couldn’t get any donations. I figured out that I couldn’t go door-to-door with a zucchini and a clipboard; at each house, I had to stash it in the bushes before ringing the bell. I mean, what would you do if a stranger showed up at your door, at the height of summer, with a huge zucchini under her arm? You certainly wouldn’t open it!

In hindsight, I wonder if it was a diabolical plan on the part of the zucchini-grower. Maybe she really despised my cause, but pretended to support it. She knew that anyone carrying a zucchini would be suspect to the rest of the neighborhood.

The more I think about her perfect strategy, the more I think I’m on to something. This summer, our military can foist zucchini on our enemies, whose neighbors will have nothing to do with them, leading to their eventual downfall. It’s a great way to get rid of unwanted zucchini, and it solves the problems of world hunger and world peace. We can even can print zucchini recipes on pieces of paper and drop them from airplanes over war zones. Even better, we can print zucchini jokes and drop them, too.

We could also drop the zucchinis themselves from the airplanes, but in order for it to be peaceful, we’d have to come up with little parachutes for them. Otherwise, people might mistake them for green bombs. And being hit with a falling zucchini could actually hurt.

If you think this is a great idea, then it’s time to start planning your “Victory Garden” now. World peace is going to require a lot of zucchini, and it’s up to us to provide it. Go ahead and plant lots of seeds, and then let’s sit back and watch the zucchinis take over the world.
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For zucchini recipes, please see the mepsnbarry.com recipe page.

Mention the phrase “haunted house,” and immediately, people start thinking of an old, deserted place with rotten floors and boarded-up windows. Then, just add a resident ghost to rattle the window panes and rearrange the dust covers.

If the ghost is fond of actually disturbing people, though, he or she would probably prefer a huge, funky old mansion, like a B&B where we once stayed. The owner of the place was really proud of her ghost. “I’d like some more coffee” was likely to get a response of, “Did I tell you about the ghost?” If you asked, “May I have an extra towel?” she’d say, “Did I tell you about the ghost?” The woman not only obsessed on the existence of the ghost, she thought that every person who came to her inn was fascinated by it. We were not.

In this life, most people have a penchant for getting ahead, having the nicer things in life. So why not ghosts, too? Why stick with abandoned houses or inns run by crazy ladies, when you could have satellite TV and high-speed internet?

That’s the kind of place where Barry and I are house-sitting right now. The house is in a very suburban neighborhood, a cul-de-sac kind of place. I was afraid to take a walk in the neighborhood yesterday without a trail of bread crumbs, or at least, my pet GPS, because the streets are not laid out in a logical grid. I thought I might get lost, return to the wrong house, and be mistaken for a burglar. I can picture the headline: “Seattle burglar mauled by 200-pound Redmond mastiff.”

Most of the houses around here date back to the 1980’s or 90’s, They have two-car attached garages, soaring ceilings, at least three bedrooms, and many bathrooms. The interiors are beautiful; through the windows I see leather sofas, antique end tables, and breakfronts full of sparkling glassware and china.

Walking along, I found myself wondering: How many of these houses are haunted? Or at least, how many others, besides the one where we’re staying?

We were having dinner the other night with Geoff, the high-school senior who lives here, and he brought it up. He told us the front door opens spontaneously, when it’s tightly locked. There have been unexplained footsteps, cold chills, and strange shadows. Things fall over when nobody is touching them.

I was politely incredulous. Why would a ghost bother haunting such a normal, average suburban house? And if it really was true, why hadn’t Geoff’s parents mentioned it when they gave us the key? A simple warning would have sufficed, something like, “Trash pickup is Thursdays, and don’t mind the ghost.”

Two nights ago, I was getting ready to go to bed around 1 am, but I could hear water running. It was awfully late for Geoff to be awake on a school night, but Barry was sitting next to me, so it had to be Geoff. Barry thought maybe a toilet was stuck running, so he went downstairs to see.

He walked into the half-bath and found the hot water tap on, full blast. It had been on for long enough to steam up the mirror. I asked the logical question: “Was there a message written on the mirror?” Barry shook his head. “I did not see one. I, uh, did not look carefully.” By which I think he means he was freaked out by his first encounter with the supernatural, and he turned off the water and came upstairs as fast as his little feet would carry him.

It could only have been the ghost. I know this family is famous for their humor and their practical jokes — things like putting Kool-aid in the showerhead so the water comes out green. But turning the hot water tap on at 1 am isn’t particularly scary, or funny. It’s just weird, and that’s the kind of stuff ghosts do.

Since I don’t know what weird things the ghost will do next, I’ve been a little less keen on walking around this house in the dark. I don’t know what I’m scared of. I just don’t want to bump into something I can’t see. Not that I could see the ghost if the light was on, either!

I finally had a chance to ask Pat, Geoff’s mother, about the ghost. She ticked off a number of things they’d attributed to it — mostly things her son had mentioned, but also a creepy incident that happened in the bed Barry and I are sleeping in. Still, she added, “It doesn’t freak out the cat or the dog, so I’m sure it’s OK.”

The cat’s sleeping on our bed as I write this. He’s purring loudly, either oblivious to the ghost, or merely unperturbed by it. I’ll take a page out of his book, and not let it bother me. And if I see any signs of the ghost, I’ll let him know he’s welcome to surf the internet on my computer. That’s as long as he — or she, or it — waits until I’m done writing this article. In the meantime, he can sit in the comfy leather chair, put up his feet, and watch some satellite TV.

Sometime this evening, Barry will give birth to a monster. Its name: Frankenstein.

It’s time for a new computer, so after shopping around, he decided to build it himself. The good news is, we won’t have to share the computer any more. The bad news is, the size of the junk box will not be diminished, because he’s had to order all the parts.

My computer-geek’s junk box is a scary place. We used to have it at our house, and the contents spilled over and crept out to take over part of a room. There were the usual RS232 cables, 9-pin connectors, and grubby mousies and pads. I once counted eight CD-drives — not CD burners, but plain old 2X drives. Not a single one of them worked.

When we moved out of the house and got rid of our stuff, Barry had to clean out his junk box. Despite the fact that none of the stuff worked and most of it was five years out of date, he had an emotional time going through the box. One of his favorite SCSI converters became a Christmas ornament, because he couldn’t part with it.

The junk box only stayed empty for a year. Last year, he started accreting again. “I’m going to Paris,” said Mo, “Do you want to take anything from my junk box?” Barry’s eyes lit up, and the next thing I knew, we were carting home a free Gateway computer and a 10-port hub. When we got home, the Gateway wouldn’t boot.

Next, we ordered a wireless keyboard from the internet. I was excited about improving the laptop’s ergonomics: Look, Ma, I can sit all the way across the room and type! The problem? I type too fast. First, the keyboard would have a tantrum and start throwing words and letters around the screen. Then, if I didn’t slow down, the screen would go blank. The cheap keyboard had mis-sent some combination of keys, so Word deleted my entire document AND emptied the recycle bin. This sent me into a major tantrum, as I struggled to maintain my composure and not throw the offending piece of cheap Chinese hardware across the room at the offending laptop. Like an incontinent puppy, that keyboard was sent to the garage.

Last week, I decided to fire up our extra computer, a really, really old Mac laptop. I plugged it in and turned it on. Nothing happened. “No, no, don’t take me to the garage! Oh noooooo, Mr. Bill!” Out it went, into the junk box.

One reason this stuff accrues is that in Seattle, you have to pay to get rid of old computer parts. The lead content is so high, it’s against the law to put them in the garbage. I steadfastly refuse every freebie that comes my way for fiscal reasons, but Barry insists that some of the stuff will work and be useful. Someday.

Maybe someday is here: Barry’s expecting to build his new computer tonight. He’s calling it Frankenstein, and he plans to keep the cost low by building it himself.

I’m afraid of Frankenstein, myself. Not that I expect it to go on a rampage, rape, and pillage. I’m simply afraid that when it’s all done, the dreaded junk box will be bigger, not smaller. For me, the real monster is the ever-growing pile of computer junk.

A series of Google searches illustrates life in Seattle these days. Only 6 results for “Seahawks frenzy” and 28 for “Seahawks hysteria.” “Seahawks mania” brings back 738 results. The one that really stands out brings back 12,400 hits: “Seahawks fever.”

In normal times, few U.S. cities exhibit more reserve and decorum than Seattle, the polite city. The last time I saw a city go this crazy was Mardi Gras in New Orleans. That doesn’t really count; they do it every year, and the crazy people are actually tourists from Duluth or Peoria or Schenectady.

National columnists have had a field day making fun of Seattle, saying they’d rather root for steelworkers than barristas and Microsoft geeks. Superbowl XL is being pitched as “brains vs. brawn,” and we are not being portrayed sympathetically.

Pittsburgh is portrayed as a gritty, hard-working town full of steelworkers, manual laborers, and blue collar workers. Nice, average folks. Seattle, on the other hand, is supposed to be a bunch of snobby, brainy Microsoft millionaires.

Not true! We do have our share of latté drinkers, but Pittsburgh has at least 20 Starbucks stores. Seattle has blue-collar workers, with a steel mill right inside the city limits. I used to ride the bus by it every day, and I loved getting stuck in traffic, so I could watch the heavy equipment and the red-hot metal rolling down the line.

What about those nice, hard-working Pittsburgh folks? Their murder rate is more than three times that of Seattle. Robbery and assault rates are almost twice as high. Our stealthy criminals have much higher rates of burglary and theft, crimes that require thought and planning instead of brawn.

Take away the question of reputation, and what it comes down is regional pride. Pittsburgh itself is smaller than Seattle, but there are many, many more people who live within a thousand miles. Why would they root for the Seahawks, unless they think our uniforms are cool and they once flew out to see the fish tossed at the Pike Place market?

The third city in this equation, of course, is Detroit, where the Superbowl will be played. Detroit lives up to its reputation as a dangerous city, with a murder rate that’s ten times higher than Seattle’s. When I was in college, I took a road trip through Detroit, and I remember being terrified. We locked all the doors, but we were really nervous at stoplights. The city was much more pleasant when viewed from a distance, at an overlook on the Canadian side, protected by Mounties.

This year, millions of dollars will pour into Detroit for the Superbowl, many of them brought by ecstatic Seattlites. Still, the one-day event doesn’t do much to address the city’s staggering unemployment rate, which some say is as high as 14%, and the grueling poverty in the inner-city. Officials think the game is a huge boost, but in the burned-out blocks, almost nothing will trickle down.

One Detroit man, Raymond Parker, was interviewed for an Associated Press story, saying he wouldn’t be joining in the Superbowl revelry.” We, as people who don’t have that kind of money, shouldn’t even be downtown,” he said.

That’s enough to give pause, even to a feverish Seahawk fan.