Ghosts of Halloween Past

 

How much do I dislike Halloween?  Let me count the ways; three, to be exact.  Actually, Halloween is fine for anyone who enjoys it, but it just isn’t something I get into.  Costuming does not suit me, and suits look like costumes on me.  I keep away from both.  I did enjoy a few years of trick-or-treating with my children when they were little and I always enjoyed the school Halloween carnivals, both theirs and mine.  During my college years I used to do the Rocky Horror thing with my OTFP and some other friends, and that was always fun.  I also went to a Halloween party once, 1986 if I remember correctly.  So, Halloween really hasn’t always been a bad thing except for these Three.

One.  I was a socially inept, selectively-mute first-grader who was mortified at the thought of going to a stranger’s door, ringing the bell and hollering “Trick or Treeeaat!!”  No, I did not do that.  My mother did it for me.  I stood there dumbfounded, or just dumb, and waited for candy to be dropped in my sack.  Then, it happened.  She rang the bell at a house I did not know and a young boy from my class at school answered the call.  He was excited to see me and ran to tell his mother that the girl who couldn’t talk was at their door.  I wanted to melt into the pavement and fade away. Did my mother do that on purpose in an effort to help me? It’s been 42 years, and I haven’t forgotten it yet.

Two.  It was another formative year in early elementary school and I was having a blast at the Halloween Carnival.  No Fall Festival for us, it was all about Halloween down at the Catholic school.  My mother was chief chili-burger maker, and had run of the school cafeteria’s kitchen.  I checked in with her every so often, probably for more money to buy cherry-bell tickets (yes, elementary school children were encouraged to gamble at the Catholic school’s Halloween carnival) or some other treat.  I remember being in the kitchen alone and a tall man in full Dracula costume and makeup eased into the kitchen slowly and leered at me.  I ran and hid in the pantry, and my mother couldn’t understand what was wrong with me, and I certainly wasn't going to tell her.  That would be too easy.  In hindsight it was probably an eighth grader in a K-Mart costume looking for the bathroom, but to me it was terrifying.  That was somewhere between 39 and 42 year ago, and I haven’t forgotten it yet.  I still avoid vampires at all costs.

Three.  Twenty years ago I was still hanging on to weight I gained in my first pregnancy so I did something completely out of character and joined the YMCA so I could take (gasp) step aerobics classes.  I was terrible at it and always stood in the back of the class so there would be no one behind me to witness my lack of rhythm and coordination.  I did it though, and that’s all that mattered.  I went that Halloween night, a Monday if I remember correctly, exactly 20 years ago today.  I knew the Trick-or-Treater was coming, but I thought I could run do my aerobics and be back in time and still manage to miss the majority of the strange children who would be at my door looking for a handout.

When I got home my husband told me I had missed Her.  By Her he meant my Godchild.  And by Her he meant my Godchild’s mother (my sister) who was leaving early the next morning for Birmingham to have a heart surgery she was sure would only have her down a few weeks.  It was no big deal.  The previous day I did not wish her good luck or tell her that I loved her or any of those things you should say to your sister before she has her heart cut open.  I knew I would see her when she brought the Godchild to trick-or-treat so I waited to give my wishes for well then.  But I let my ridiculous social anxieties get in the way and left for an aerobics class where I clumsily clomped to some techno/rap/’90’s remix instead of facing the awkwardness of sharing my feelings with my sister. Listening to “Are you ready for this?” blaring and hearing my own heartbeat pumping in my ears was my cowardly escape from awkwardness.  I wasn’t only running from the trick-or-treaters, I was running from myself facing Her.  It was hard for me.  It is harder for me now thinking about it and wondering if she was hurt that I didn't wait for her. It would have been our last real conversation.  It’s been twenty years to the day and I haven’t forgotten it yet.

This morning when my snooze alarm went off, aka, hungry cat yowls, I rolled over to check my phone for the weather report.  The date hung there suspended in digital magic, and I remembered that night as I have every Halloween since 1994.  I was reminded of missed opportunities with no second chances.  I cried as if she died yesterday.  It’s been twenty years but some days it still feels like she died yesterday.

On my way home from work today I listened to one of my favorite short stories in my New Yorker Fiction podcasts.  It’s a story by Miranda July about an awkward woman who is given an opportunity she does not realize only to understand years later what it would have meant for her.  Her whole life would have been completely different if she had only dialed one phone number, but she did not understand the reality of situation until it was years too late. When the cold comprehension dawns on her she is stunned and regretful.  I had forgotten that part of the story when I decided to listen again today.  Driving home with those words sounding in my ears I felt her pain as I always do, only this time it was on a new level.

I’m a different person than I was twenty years ago.  Sharing my feelings through writing has given me a hint of confidence I didn’t have even five years ago, and that confidence builds layer by layer each time I make a new post.  There are many things I will do and say now that were impossibilities for me in 1994.  Like tonight, for example.  I bought candy, turned on the lights and waited for the trailer loads of children that parade my street to come to my door.  They didn’t and I knew they wouldn’t (no one wants to drive a trailer load of children down my dirt drive) but hey, I gave it a shot. 

Maybe next year I’ll wear a witch’s hat, tease out my taupe locks, and stand at the mailbox and throw the candy at them as they pass.  One step at a time, right?