What’s not to like about Halloween? When I was a kid I thought it had to have been a big mistake. My little mind couldn’t fathom why adults, who made sure you ate all your vegetables, did your homework, took out the garbage, washed behind your ears and got 46 hours of sleep a night, would encourage you to dress up in some outrageous costume and go door-to-door begging for candy…and then be allowed to eat as much of it as you wanted!
Although the mixed message I got as a kid, didn’t make any sense, I never questioned the superior adult wisdom at the time because why would I risk ruining a good thing.
And while most of my Halloweens were uneventful, there was one Halloween from Hell that haunts me to this very day.
I was ten and I couldn’t decide whether to go out as a hobo or a ghost. My choices were limited because my frugal father didn’t want to spend two bucks on a store-bought costume made out of material he said was less durable than Kleenex. I flipped a coin that Halloween night long ago, and the ghost costume won.
My mother, who had elevated worrying to an art form, had heard the weather was going to be particularly cold and rainy on Halloween. So before I donned my well-ironed sheet,
I had to put on a pair of thermal underwear; sweat pants that were two sizes too big for me; three bulky sweaters; and a snowsuit.
When I was all finished dressing, I looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Worse than the way I looked was the fact I could barely move. I was so constricted that my joints were inoperable. I had to hop down the stairs. I couldn’t even bend over to pick up my trick-or-treat bag.
My mother opened the front door and noticed it was drizzling. Not missing a beat,
she sprang to the hall closet and before I knew what was happening she was stuffing me into my bright yellow rain slicker and buckling me into a pair of 40 pound rubber boots.
“Have fun,” she said as she ushered me out the door.
Not only couldn’t I move, I couldn’t see because the small holes I was supposed to look out of had shifted, thereby greatly limiting my field of vision. It took me over fifteen minutes to make it to my first house which was less than 50 feet away.
Even though I did make a few attempts to hurl myself on the stoop, there was no way I was going to make it up to the top step. I had to wait for a bunch of kids to do the dirty work for me. A group of five kids in store bought costumes rumbled past me at the bottom of the stoop and rang the door bell.
“Trick or treat,” they all screamed in unison.
I screamed it too, hoping my ghost-like voice would be heard by my next door neighbor. I knew I had failed to get her attention when the kids rang out in a chorus of ‘thank-you’ and heard the door click shut and the saw porch light go off.
I had my work cut out for me if I expected to fill my bag with candy. That’s when I decided I would only go to houses that had no stoops or porches.
I was pleased with my decision, and after an hour of trick or treating I had an apple, a bag of popcorn, a cracked lollipop and a cup cake.
Meanwhile, most of my friends had already gone home to empty their trick-or-treat bags and were out again hitting many of the same homes for a second time. Still, I held my reserve and like a good trooper marched forward into the fray. And then it happened. I had to go to the bathroom.
I calculated my rate of speed and the distance I had to travel to get back home and realized I would be 27 years old by the time I made it to the bathroom. I opted to hold it in and hop like hell from house to house, which I did to the amusement of my neighbors.
With my trick-or-treat bag “under-flowing” and my bladder “over-flowing,” I began my urgent retreat home.
Perhaps I didn’t see it because I was looking at the world through a sheet, but I failed to notice a wide crack on the sidewalk..
As fast as you could say “Jack-o-lantern,” I was down on the ground in a heap. I looked like a speed bump. All my goodies were strewn about like the fallout from a piñata. Little feet passed me by in quick succession. My muffled cries were drowned out by the now howling wind.
My brief life passed before my eyes. I thought it was all over until I heard the pitter-patter of soft footsteps coming up from behind me.
“I’m saved,” I cried out.
I lifted my head to see who my savior was and came face-to-face with a basset hound that must have had garlic for lunch owing to the odious smell of his hot breath. The hound proceeded to lick my face with reckless abandon before he devoured my soggy cupcake.
And then…the coup-de-grace. The little overweight dog lifted his leg and peed all over me.
I started to laugh. And it was my laughter that saved me because a passing adult heard me and stood me upright.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I answered. “Couldn’t be better. It’s Halloween and I just love Halloween!”
The following year my father broke down and bought me a store-bought Superman costume. The elastic strap on the mask broke before I got to the end of my driveway and the cape got caught on a sticker bush.
I made a quick retreat to the house and came out dressed like a hobo.
Along The Yellow Brick Road 