As the resident green enthusiast at my church and son’s school, I am excited to help organize this year’s Halloween “Trunk or Treat” for White Rock UMC and the Discovery Center.  This year we’re adding a dose of earth-friendly education to make our mission even more relevant.  I signed us up for Green Halloween®, a non-profit, grassroots initiative created by the fabulous mother-daughter team Lynn Colwell and Corey Colwell-Lipson. 

When I told everyone that we were going to make our Halloween healthier and more earth-friendly, they didn’t take it as hard as I had feared.  In fact, they were pretty excited, but had questions.  How exactly do we “green” our Halloween?  I explained that we’re already following the basics of “Reduce, Reuse and Recycle,” but a healthy planet doesn’t mean much without healthy kids to enjoy it.  Here are a few of the spooky statistics that are fueling my desire to improve the way we celebrate Halloween:

• This generation of kids has a shorter life expectancy than their parents.
• 1 in 3 children born today will develop diabetes.
• One-third of America’s children are overweight; 17% are considered obese.
• Over 6,000 synthetic chemicals are used in the processed-food industry.
• A 2004 study found that children’s behavior measurably improved after a one-week diet without preservatives and artificial colors and dramatically worsened on the weeks they were given preservatives and artificial colors.

We are what we eat (I guess Grandma was right after all).  But how do we stop the madness without putting a damper on our kids’ Halloween?  Objectively speaking, our kids follow the traditions that we create for them, so the great news is that simple behavioral changes on our parts can help us easily reframe the way they experience the fun.  The folks at Green Halloween suggest this strategy: Fill a bowl with a variety of great choices, whether sweets or "treasures" like sparkly stones, feathers (yes, kids love these), hair decorations, temporary tatoos, stickers etc.  Cover the bowl with a cloth. When the children come to the door, get down to their level and whisper, "At our house, we have some very, very special treats and treasures.  You may now choose your favorite."  Then with a flourish, whip off the cloth and let them sift.  Compliment them on their choice afterwards.

It's about that time. My daughter Jordan starts kindergarten on Tuesday, so I'm busy getting everything organized for her first day of school. Uniform, check. School supplies, check. Lunch box...er, still getting my act together on this one.

Buying Jordan's lunch box last year was the sort of mindless activity you'd think it should be. We whizzed down the aisle at Super Target, grabbed a pink Disney Princess number off the shelf, and continued shopping for lunchbox-ready foods to fill it up. For practical purposes, the pink lunchbox served her well. But on the last day of school, after surveying the frayed edges and stains that refused to be scrubbed off, I unceremoniously pitched the sagging satchel in the trash. "We'll buy a new one next fall," I promised her.

I used to wonder if one person could make a difference. This wasn’t a philosophical exercise that I pondered in some detached way.  For me, this question was more critical than that. I tried to ignore it by keeping busy with social events and classes (this was before I had my kids), but I couldn’t run from the nagging notion that there might be a bigger way to live my life.   The possibility at least offered a promise that there could be meaningful work beyond my IBM cubicle, which had begun to close in on my like a cage.  So in 2003, still without answers, I took the plunge and resigned from my job.

A steady paycheck wasn’t overrated in those days (or any day), so I don’t want to sound blasé about the decision.  Leaving behind a good job to start over in sales was difficult on many levels. I had worked extremely hard to build a career in management consulting with a top firm.   But I hadn’t done it for any more compelling reasons than to make money and have a title.  Like any other ambitious person, I wanted to be somebody.  Yet, in trying so hard to do so, I had become somebody else.  I was more or less okay with this until my eyes began opening to what I might be missing.   

My kids love Dr. Seuss, so for Christmas we gave them The Lorax.  I don’t know how I reached age 36 without reading this brilliant 1971 classic. Now that I have, I think it the single most imaginative presentation of the tension between industry and environmentalists ever written.  The story opens when a boy comes to a desolate corner of town to hear the story of “the Once-ler” (a green being who is never shown throughout the book except for his arms and legs).  After the Once-ler receives payment from the boy (consisting of 15 cents, a nail, and the shell of a great, great, great grandfather snail) he recounts how he first arrived where they now stand, back then a beautiful forest of Truffula Trees, colorful woolly trees that supported various fantastical creatures.  As soon as the Once-ler drives his covered wagon into this paradise, he becomes so enamored with the fuzzy tufts of the Truffula trees that he sets about cutting them down to make Thneeds.   Why?  Because “a thneed is a thing that everyone needs!”

The Lorax, a short furry animal resembling a sea otter, enters the picture as “a voice for the trees” (think annoying environmentalist, but cuter).  From the time the Once-ler chops down his first tree until he cuts down the last, the Lorax keeps trying to warn him of the dangers to the Bar-ba-Loots, who survive on Truffula fruits. The Swomee Swans and the Humming Fish also suffer from pollution and smog of the thneed factories.