Thinking About the Wrong Holiday

It's spring, and Halloween celebrations are months away in either direction. Yet I find myself now thinking about a Halloween far, far back in the early 1960s. My family lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. It was a typical 1950s development, with the "ticky-tacky" houses. I was five years old.

I had probably gone out on Halloween before, but I don't remember it. So this is my earliest memory of Halloween. I was dressed up as a ghost. You know. White sheet with two holes cut out for seeing. Only I probably was wearing a large pillow case.

My family couldn't afford the cool buckets others used to collect their candy. We used paper bags. Just brown paper bags. I don't remember what my siblings were. Helvie didn't go, I remember, which suggests to me that this may have been my first Halloween doing Trick-or-Treat. Helvie would have been four.

Back then the neighborhood kids would get together in huge groups and walk together. This made traveling safer. Also, back then it was far more common to see teenagers participating in the evening's fun. There was this one boy, I remember. He was dressed up as a "Pumpkin-Head", complete with a real pumpkin. Everyone kept touching it, and he began to get annoyed. Finally, I happened to be standing next to him. I reached up and patted it. What a pity that a tiny five-year-old's tap proved to be the straw which broke the camel's back. He turned and began to threaten me. Fortunately, Mickey was right here. Mother had told him at least a dozen times to keep an eye on me. Mickey wasn't massive, but he was tall. And he has always had a presence about him which makes people stand up and take note. "Pumpkin-Head" backed off.

I must have been the youngest in the group. I was certainly the smallest. As such, I would go to the door last. At first, Mickey stood with me, to show me how things were done. Once I figured out the routine he let me go on my own. But that became the problem. You see, as Trick-or-Treaters finished at one house, they would begin to rush off to the next. The group was beginning to stretch out between houses. I supposed this is part of Mickey's leaving me to go on my own. His friends were running on ahead. I began to fall behind.

It wasn't real bad at first. I would be able to run and catch up while the line backed up. But then there was this house where the bowl went empty. The lady made me stand and wait while she refilled it. I looked to my right with great anxiety. The line at the next house was dwindling.

I ran and got there just as the last person left. Why did these people have to move so slowly? I mean, how long does it take to drop a couple of candy bars into a paper bag? Come on, people!

I was not catching up. In fact, I was falling further and further behind. My little legs moved as quickly as they could, but being wrapped in a sheet/pillow case hampered my speed. And it kept shifting so I couldn't see. It was becoming a bad dream. I fell, and my bag ripped. Then, at the next house, the woman insisted I wait while she gave me a new bag. Now I was nearly two houses behind. I ran, but it was useless. So, I just fell down between the houses and cried in the dark.

Don't know how long I lay there, emotionally exhausted and totally given up, but then I saw Mickey running toward me. He picked me up and carried me home. It was determined I couldn't handle Halloween and so my evening was done. Mickey went back out, leaving me home to reflect on what it means to fall behind.

I didn't do many Halloweens. I quit in seventh grade. By then it was no longer cool for teenagers to participate. It seems it's kind of changing back again, but not to a large degree. I have a vague memory of one other Halloween, which must have been my last. Otherwise, the only memory of Trick-or-Treating I have is laying in the dark and crying.

You know what's so cool about Halloween, though? Dressing up in costumes.

Yeah, that again.

Why is that the sad memories seem to stand out so well?

Weird Can Be Beautiful - Right

Had a short talk with a good friend this morning in which "dress up" was talked about. Nothing in depth. Just kind of 'mentioned in passing'.

I like playing dress up. Or, I should say, I like the idea of it. Don't actually do it. Don't have many clothes, and those I do have kind of all look the same. Not much fun dressing up to look the same.

If you scroll down a bit you'll see three pictures of me in various forms of dress which are unremarkably similar. That's pretty much how I dress all the time, although none of those particular articles of clothing remain. Pity about the top outfit. That was my favorite. It got washed so many times that it tore when I scratched an itch. But I generally wear sweat pants, or perhaps oversized tennis shorts (I'm still overweight), with a t-shirt and a polo shirt (sometimes) on top. My feet are usually bare.

I envy women, being able to walk into a store and see such a variety of things to wear. The variety in guy stuff seems to be more in color than style. What a pity we gave up the days when men got to wear frills, puffy sleaves, exotic hats, and things. Of course, I don't know that I want to shave my head and wear a puffy wig just to keep the lice away, either. But when men dressed like that they had to feel elegant and grand. Somewhere along the line somone decreed that men had to give up the cool outfits and dress boring.

When I was still in kindergarten my Aunt Cile (Lucille) stored her costume jewlery in a huge dresser my parents kept in our garage. My sisters and I were allowed to go into the garage and play dress up. At first I wasn't allowed to join in. Just wasn't done, you know. But I cried and Daddy said it didn't matter. He was probably embarassed to see me running around with giant earings on my ears, beaded necklaces around my neck, and some of Aunt Cile's blouses and gloves draping off my body, but he didn't seem worried about me. (Perhaps he should have been.) Now that I think of it, Daddy was quite progressive in his thinking.

I miss being able to dress up and look fine, and grand, and beautiful. Supposedly, (when I was much, much younger), I was something to see when I was "dressed to the hilts". I bought a three-piece suit back in the days when you were supposed to have to be important to wear one. Spent all my money to get it. Every once in a while I would wear it. Just because. I was in my early twenties. Still thin. Reasonably muscular. Wasn't married then, but I got Spouse's attention.

If I dressed like that now I'd probably look like another fat Wall-Street pig.

Can't really do dress up anymore, for a variety of reasons. Not for real. Not the way I would like. So I do it with imagination and stories. I create hero and villain characters with some on-line software and write stories about them. (See Legion of On-Line Super Heroes blog.) I use computer characters as alter egos and dress them up to be pretty, scary, sexy, monstrous, or whatever suits me. It's a different kind of theatre. (I need to start a community theatre. When I know what community I'll be living in perhaps I will.) I save the images to my hard drive to use in subsequent stories I will write.

I guess I'm kind of weird, aren't I? But you know what? I don't mind anymore. I'm finding I like me better when I admit the truth to myself.

I am weird! Hear me roar!

Now. Whatever did we do with those earrinngs and beaded necklaces?