Happy Halloween?
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost
I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween. I don’t like either black or orange; I find dressing up annoying; and even as a kid, I didn’t like candy much. (Although I was very fond of the dentist in my neighborhood in Dallas who handed out ice cream bars. Now that was an appropriate Halloween treat!) You can imagine that I was a huge disappointment to my children—all of whom loved dressing up, scaring the neighbors, and gobbling sugar at a world class rate.
When you have eight children, dredging up costumes for everyone can be serious business. Early on, I learned to save outfits from one year to the next. Pre-schoolers didn’t really care if a sibling had used the same costume the year before; they were just happy impersonating a lion or a clown. But as my children got older, they developed more sophisticated tastes. And to be fair, they were happy to round up whatever they needed to create their own disguises.
One of my personal favorites was when Daughter #2 made herself into a washing machine. Something of an artist, she started with a large moving box—added a control panel which featured a clever spinning dial and several wash cycles, a top loading door which doubled as the opening for her head, and Tide and Downy bottles mounted on the both sides of the “washer” opening. It was brilliant! Until her date arrived to pick her up for the high school Halloween dance, and her costume was too wide to fit through the car’s doors. Her grand entrance to the party was somewhat subdued by her having to be unloaded from the back of a neighbor’s truck.
It was a family tradition back then for all of our kids to carve a pumpkin the Monday before Halloween. We mounted candles in each one and displayed them on our tiny front porch and on both sides the two steps that led up to it. If you are counting, you already figured out that there were more pumpkins than steps, so it was tricky to navigate past the leering carved faces to get in the front door.
One eventful year, Son #1 donned black slacks, a black turtle-necked sweater and a huge pumpkin, the bottom of which he’d hollowed out enough to fit over his head. He slouched down in the shadows, positioning his “head” level with the porch and virtually disappeared from view. Just another spooky jack o’ lantern—this one lit by a tiny flashlight, rather than a candle.
It was a cold and windy night, our neighborhood ghosts and princesses so bundled against the weather that their costumes were barely visible. We proffered our candy contribution to their night’s festivities in a large metal bowl at the front of the steps with a sign that said, “Take One.” One child after another squealed with glee and headed for the treats, intent on adding to their growing stashes of sugar. As each one reached into the bowl to grab a handful, a low voice warned, “Don’t touch that candy!”
Witches and ninjas, policeman and Raggedy Annes froze in place. Eyes darted in every direction searching for the source of the command. Nothing moved except the flicker of candles and the moon slipping in and out between dark clouds. Braver sorts stuffed the candy they’d already grabbed into their bags and reached for more.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned the quiet voice. “I know where you live.” Four-year-olds began to cry. Older children backed up. Even parents waiting on the sidewalk looked over their shoulders. Up and down the street the word spread until the laughter and excitement of the night dissolved into whispers and dread.
It was the only Halloween I can ever remember that we had leftover candy. Even more telling was the fact that it was late spring when neighborhood children finally stopped crossing to the other side of the street before they had to pass by our house. Happy Halloween.