I hate Halloween. Maybe it started when my mother made me a cool black cat costume and Shirley Niklas won the first place costume prize for some cheesy princess get-up.
Once or twice I relapsed and reluctantly played along with the rest of the world. Most often I've worn my jammies, carried a teddy bear and blankie for a few handfuls of free chocolate. The best one was probably the time I wore a forest green head-to-toe leotard festooned with Christmas ornaments and silver garland. After a time however, life as a Christmas tree grew wearisome. Everyone just wanted to "feel my balls."
We had a few good years when my kids were small. One year, Dan was a mummy and I wrapped him up in strips of muslin. He started unraveling the minute he stepped out the door. When he returned from making the rounds in the neighborhood, he looked like an angora cat who'd lost a fight with the weed whacker. I picked up strings from the carpet for weeks. When Julie was about 3, she decided she wanted to be a "cockalooda." After a few minutes of careful interrogation, we concluded that she wanted to be a brightly colored bird. I cut long petal-shaped "feathers" from a number of different cotton fabrics and sewed them onto a cape, which she wore over tights. She was the cutest little cockalooda in the Halloween parade, right down to her red high-topped Converse sneakers.
Now, I find Halloween a bother. I dislike having to listen to the dogs bark all night as we run back and forth to dispense cheap candy and a heartfelt, "Aren't you cute!" Check back later--things may change after we get grandchildren.
In the meantime, here are a few photos of Halloween in our small town.
No comments:
Post a Comment