Less than a week before Thanksgiving 2009, I couldn't possibly guess how many folks have put their hand prints on this project.

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Our hope is to provide a turkey and all the trimmings to at least 25 needy families in the area around SOF and Fletcher Field.

If you would like to donate to the cause, please email SOF minister Imogene Johnson at wdjohnson0742@sbcglobal.net, or you can simply drop off nonperishable items or cash donations at the church on Friday.

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The dreams about Fletcher Field and the neighborhood come less frequently now than when I first returned there in the summer of 2007.

Back then, I was often haunted by nightmares of the blighted area -- young children traipsing through the weeds and skeletons of playground equipment in what was once the centerpiece of the neighborhood. At least twice a week, I would wake up in a cold sweat and have trouble shaking off the images so I could get back to sleep.

Last night, for the first time in months, my dreams took me home again. But this wasn't really a nightmare. Fletcher Field was as it is now -- a beautiful, safe place for children to play and dream about better tomorrows.

In my dream, I had stopped by the park as I sometimes do just to check on the place, honestly, to see if any vandalism or illegal dumping had happened there. I stood near my usual perch at Fletcher, the little barbecue on the west side of the park, just south of Mt. Olivet Street.

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Those were just some of the names being tossed around during a Friends of Fletcher Field meeting last night, when we started to talk about our favorite teachers at Holy Name.

The reason for the conversation is that we're thinking about honoring former H.N. teachers during the third annual Holy Name reunion, which is scheduled for Saturday, March 20, 2010, 7 p.m. at Lakeland Banquet & Event Center in St. Clair Shores.

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Can you tell me how to get ... how to get to Sesame Street?

With a state-of-the-art (for 1970) rotary antenna attached to the top of our chimney at 8271 Dobel, "Sesame Street" was a pretty easy find for me as child: PBS Channel 56.

Depending on the cloud cover and wind, sometimes Big Bird, Oscar The Grouch and Cookie Monster were a little fuzzy to the eye, but they were always food for the mind and fun to watch over a bowl of Fruit Loops in the morning.

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The disheveled guy I saw walking down Gratiot last week, pushing a shopping cart with all his worldly possessions inside of it.

Or the woman I saw in Los Angeles on Thursday, dressed to the hilt and pushing her dog -- which was much bigger than Paris Hilton's purse-size pooch -- in a fancy stroller.

Wonder what would happen if their paths crossed. Would dog-stroller woman help out shopping-cart man?

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That's what it looked like from the video footage and doomsday commentary I saw Tuesday on television anyway.

Funny thing, when I've told people from L.A. that Detroit is my hometown, they seemed surprised that anybody still lives in Motown. They say that from what they've seen on TV, they perceived all of Michigan as hell on earth.

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Life is good for me. But it's still not so good for the kids on Dobel Street.

That's why it matters not where I go professionally; it just matters that we stay put in the old neighborhood and stick up for the kids who need a voice.

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It was like the days of yore on the northeast corner of Mack and Brys in Grosse Pointe Woods Saturday night.

A bonfire raged in a portable pit on the front lawn while about a dozen adults from the neighborhood sat around the hearth, drinking sodas and spirits, and handing out candy to young trick-or-treaters.

You could feel the warmth as you approached the house, not just from the fire, but from the people themselves, who were clearly enjoying the company, and welcoming the kids with smiles and compliments on their costumes. Better yet, they offered each adult passerby a beer treat for stopping by with the kids.

This wasn't the only stop that felt old-school comfortable. Most of the folks I met while accompanying my kids on their trick-or-treat trek were remarkably jovial, generous with their treats and conversation, and seemed to take as much as they gave from the experience.

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Each mid-October when the Detroit Public Library Bookmobile made its stop at Holy Name, I tried to nab the book before any of my classmates could.

It contained two of Washington Irving's classic stories: "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle."

Fittingly, "Rip Van Winkle" put me to sleep. But "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" was and still is one of my favorite tales of the Halloween season.

I used to imagine myself in poor Ichabod Crane's saddle, trying to get away from the galloping black stallion ridden by the headless beast who held the horse's reins in one hand and a fiery jack-o-lantern in the other. Before too long, my pulse would race faster than the stallion's pace as I anticipated my, err, Ichabod's horrifying demise.

In October 1974, the Headless Horseman nearly did kill me -- and my father was his accomplice.

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