My neighborhood goes full tilt at Halloween. My daughters and their friends tear across yards at top speed to ring doorbells and land bodacious candy hauls. They return home to download individual candy baskets into the “mother-bucket” and then go back for more. My kids have it easy … which is why I worry about them. I think that they, along with the whole lot of their collective friends, are pansies. How can you even appreciate Halloween if you have never had to cross enemy lines through yards protected by mangy dogs risking life and limb for un-x-rayed caramel apples and razor blade laden rice crispy treats?
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I grew up out in the country. I am not sure if it was some type of redneck prenup, but for some strange reason, my dad was designated Halloween parent. It was the only holiday that he actively participated in. For the rest of the year, he was in the outer perimeter of our lives watching, eating, and yelling.
My siblings and I piled into my parents’ Chevy Bel-Air and with my Father at the wheel we charged down the country roads into the darkness. Those Halloween nights seemed both delicious and dangerous, mostly because we were with my Father and he often danced on the ledge of control. He rolled down his window a crack’s width so that he could blow out Pall Mall non-filtered exhaust as we stopped at houses of friends where the kids got a box of animal crackers or a candy corn and Tootsie Roll combo packed into a Glad sandwich bag.
Our trick-or-treating finale was with my Grandparents. I remember being cold, tired, and relieved to see my Granny’s smiling face. She always acted as if she didn’t know who we were. One year, my brother ripped off his cowboy hat and bank robber bandana to tearfully say, “Don’t be afraid, Granny. It’s just us.” What a doofass thing to do.
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My parents’ farm stretches over 27 acres. The house I grew up in sits on top of a long, winding, hilly driveway. No one ever trick-or-treated there. Then there was one year that some kids from my school bus made the trek on Halloween night. My Mom was caught by surprise and maybe the shock impaired her senses, which is the ONLY explanation to support her decision to give the kids from my school bus SALTINE CRACKERS. Perhaps you are thinking that this wouldn’t be so bad, especially if she distributed some cool crackers like Captain’s Wafers or maybe Triscuits. But you would be wrong. This was 1975 and she gave what she had in her cabinet. Zesta Crackers … whole rectangular packs of them. The big cat daddy of uncool Halloween treats. I guess she was all out of canned green beans and frozen corn. For the rest of that year, I was known on the school bus as Cracker Girl.
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There was a Halloween when all I wanted was to be a clown. My mother bought a pattern from the fabric store and crafted a costume rivaling those of real clowns who work over at Ringling Brothers. She stitched crimson shoe covers to offer the illusion of clown feet within the comfort of your own well-fitting sneakers. The costume was beautiful. What I really wanted was the clown costume from Pope’s Dime Store which came with a cardboard mask held tightly by the weakest rubber band ever invented, attached by the smallest staples known to man. A perfect storm of a costume that scored a 2 in longevity and durability and a 10 in county kid appeal for one shallow, simple reason … it was store bought.
I never spoke out loud about my clown crisis or whined about the costume because those things weren’t options in my Father’s house. Somehow my Mom figured it out. Halloween was on a Thursday and when I got home from school, the Pope’s Dime Store costume lay on my bed complete with cardboard mask. I ended up carrying most of that costume as it shredded itself under the wear and tear of country trick or treating. But, I didn’t care. It was good to have a mask to hide behind, even if I had to hold it up in front of my face with its broken rubber band dangling down the side. Sometimes you just want to be anyone other than who you really are.
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Halloween is high tech now. We shop at seasonal stores with the entire space devoted to costumes and accoutrements. Not only can you dress like Dolly Parton, but you can buy a tee shirt with a built-in double Ds. Breastesess sold separately. My nine-year-old wants me to make (as in “craft, cut, and sew”) a costume for her. I told her I liked the ones from the Halloween store, especially the clown ones with the cool masks. She frowned and sighed, more vocal in her discontent than I was when I was shorter and blonder. “Mom,” she said. “I don’t want anything covering my face; no one will know it’s me.”
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Now that I am all grown up and stuff, it’s not Halloween that scares me. I am brave in the dark. The road to the real me has been long and left scars but now that the masks are off, it are easier to breathe out here in the open. The air tastes good to my soul.
I have fears. We all do. I am afraid of … snakes, certain memories, those Dementors from Harry Potter, most things Stephen King, teenage girls hurting my daughter, having to hide the bodies of teenage boys that hurt my daughter, losing people that I love, being alone, not being alone, senseless crimes, lack of justice for senseless crimes, deep water, people with small teeth, people with dandruff, certain relatives, having to eat liver, being a poser, living a lie.