Hallo-wean

While my cousins were settling on costumes of Monchichis, princesses, gypsies and Yoda (we did have the novelty boy amongst us) respectfully, I had my heart set on dressing as a witch. I’d never been a girlie-girl and Halloween didn’t seem the time to start, why play against type? To further complicate things for my mother, I didn’t want to go with the readily available painted acrylic mask held on by an elastic string / plastic clothes cover combo that was wildly popular in 1982. You know, the kind that had a picture on the front of the costume of who you were supposed to be thus totally taking away from the overall fantasy that you were this character. I’ve never understood that. No, I wanted a legitimate witch’s costume. After some debate, Mom finally convinced me that for a five year old such as myself, the most authentic we were going to get was to purchase some black fabric to be cut and sewn into witchesque attire…accessories from the grocery store. It wasn’t easy for me to accept that this length of cloth piled loosely on the craft store counter top would eventually be a credible witch costume, but after we’d bought my accompanying witch hat, makeup palette, stockings and coal finger nails, I was beginning to buy into Mom’s vision.

Tireless days later, Mom emerged triumphant with the finished product: miniature witch’s garb complete with jagged sleeves and hem to better communicate that gothic feel. I was ecstatic! When the big day finally arrived, we were ready. Covered neck to toe in custom attire, hair pinned back, we’d saved the makeup for last in order to keep from staining Mom’s original witch-couture gown. Once Mom had finished slathering my face in shades of green, yellow and black oil based makeup, I’d expected to look exactly like what I’d seen of witches on television and in movies…not so much. To be fair my expectations might have been a tad high for what was possible with Safeway’s Halloween makeup selection, but at the time that didn’t matter.  I wanted it changed, I wanted it corrected, I wanted to be the most bona fide witch this side of Hollywood. At five, the tone’s always the same, me me me, as is the response, take it or leave it!?! Ultimately, my desire for free candy far outweighed my artistic integrity. That Halloween, I had to accept Mom’s makeup proficiency was beyond my control, but what I wasn’t prepared to recognize was how in the years to come the meaning of Halloween would change and with it my relevance in the equation would slide from numerator to the lowest common denominator.

October 1985, I knew it was over. I already had one little sister, another on the way, my Halloween importance was bordering on nonexistent. It’s not that there was no attention coming my way, it’s just that I couldn’t procure the kind of attention I’d grown accustomed to in the previous seven years i.e. I was spoiled. That year, now a Halloween z-lister, we attended functions that were feasible for a woman 8 months into pregnancy with an 11 month old and 8 year old in tow. As you can imagine the options were limited. So, at the behest of our neighbors, that year was spent in the rec center of a local church. Bridgette, who was still hermetically sealed to her bottle, went as a hobo: light blue onesie, one of Dad’s old ties slackly around her neck, scruffy Fedora and, of course, a drawn on beard stubble and black eye. I went a tad more feminine that year as a decidedly very covered hula dancer; a loose interpretation, but still enough to merit candy. What had been made clear to Mom, that I was there of my own volition to have fun with my friends, was muddied once Bridgette saw I’d drifted from the group. “Da’wa?!?” (that was baby speak for Starla) at ever increasing volume meant I’d spend that Halloween carnival escorting Bridgette from attraction to attraction, luring magnetized plastic fish from a shallow pool and helping her decide between prizes of plastic lizards and fake tattoos.

But by 1995, I finally had this big sister, Halloween is no longer about you gig down. See, I was 18 then and no one wants to give a punky 18 year old kid candy…unless you have a punky 11, 10 and 4 year old with you. It’s amazing. Having younger siblings is like a free pass to all kinds of child amenities that most adolescents lose after thirteen. Not me, I milked that sucker. As a recent high school graduate needing a costume, I put forth the most minimal effort possible. I went in my cap and gown as a high school graduate. Bridgette, I’m told, was supposed to have been a genie, but I went ahead and touted her as a belly dancer. A fact she didn’t much appreciate, I had the bruising afterwards to prove it. Ever anxious to overdress for a casual occasion, Heidi, in a white gown, sparkling tiara and dress shoes, looked every bit the princess she was portraying. And Chase, well, what else? The red Power Ranger. I believe this was a costume prerequisite for boys of the 1990s. After explaining that Chase’s little 4 year old legs couldn’t possibly make the trek around the neighborhood and back, we setoff in the bed of Dad’s truck; he’d pull up to streets, we’d hop out “trick r’ treat” and jump right back in. This little swindle allowed for maximum candy take home with minimum physical exertion and humiliation. Genius.

How long could such a practice last? Apparently, until 1998, the year I moved out aka the year I had to finally start behaving like somewhat of an adult. And Halloween morphed from being chiefly about complimentary sweets to being souly about the costume. After all, as an independent, grown woman of 21 candy was no longer this elusive item relegated to successful checkout line begging and holidays. Candy was fair game and the focus had to shift. In declaration of my sovereignty, that Halloween I combed all the area Ross’, TJ Maxxs, Walmarts and Targets (because freedom didn’t mean prosperity) in search of clothing fit for a Spice Girl, Ginger Spice to be exact. My commitment to detail spent far more money than my need to buy groceries would have liked, but I found the perfect tastefully low-cut blouse (I don’t have the Ginger Spice cleavage to boast) and the right mini to go with the exact knee high boots which all matched the ideal ankle-length, fuzzy collared coat to mimic Ginger’s 2 become 1 video look. All that was left was my hair. With Michael’s reluctant assistance, we cut my bangs bleached them and dyed the rest of my hair bright red. Viola, insta-Spice! In the subsequent Halloweens since my “adulthood” I’ve dressed as: Punky Brewster, 1980s Madonna, Reagan from The Exorcist, Samara from The Ring, and two different Living Dead Dolls to name a few all with great success…and great cost.

No matter how many paychecks I lose to hair dye and faux-blood, nothing can match what Halloween meant to me as a child; carefully selecting a costume, haggling with Mom over the ins and outs of achieving believability, running door to door with an open pillow case full of candy and spending hours sorting my bounty into piles of chocolate, fruit flavors and, of course, undesirables (I’ll have none of that orange peanut, thank you) with a poorly edited version of Halloween playing on TV. Would I ever know that Halloween again? Most would think procreation the obvious answer, but I’m not falling for that one…at least not from me. In 2003, that little hobo belly dancer Bridgette had a son, my first and only nephew, Aidan. From that moment it became my objective to acquaint him with Halloween; the tradition of playing pretend without ridicule but reward, celebrating the macabre with ghost stories and carving pumpkins for display. Every October I watch as Aidan’s costume preferences transform from Spiderman to Diego, Bumble Bee to Super Mario seeing the same enthusiasm I’d known twenty-eight years ago. Yeah, Halloween is no longer wholly about me, my costume, my candy, my unreasonable expectations, but it’s in no way lost its significance. Now, I share the torch with this young man who has his mother’s unwavering spirit, his granny’s selfless creativity and, thankfully, his aunt’s love of Halloween.

 

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