Boo

Happy Halloween. Technically, it’s still All Hallow’s Eve Eve here, but by the time I finish this post, the witching, ghouling, Power Rangering hour will have arrived. Enjoy...and don’t take apples from strangers.

Compared to vampires and werewolves, adult fears are a little mundane, aren’t they? I’m afraid I won’t get to Starbucks before my 9 a.m. Research Methods class. Also slightly anxious about defining and explaining “internalization of ethnic identity.” Not exactly haunted house material.

No matter -- I’ve never been much for the blood-drenched, pointy fanged or translucent. Freddy Kreuger never scritch-scritched into my childhood dreams. After lights out, the bedpost was still a bedpost, and beneath the bed were...socks? If my parents had let me watch horror films as a child, I like to think I wouldn’t have been terribly bothered. Redrum. Hmmm. Is that Scrabble-acceptable?

Know what movie contributed most to my occasional kid-insomnia? Follow That Bird. Obviously, Children’s Television Workshop paid little attention to the separation-anxiety-prone subset of their viewership when they put together this flick. First, Big Bird wanders off Sesame Street. Maria, Luis, Snuffy, Mr. Hooper...gone. Then, he lands in the middle of a strange town, and he’s forced to hitchhike back to his nest. If I ever contemplated leaving my driveway before seeing Follow That Bird, the image of yellow feathers crammed in a semi sufficiently dissuaded me.

No costume parties for me today, but I caught two shindigs over the weekend, in Honesdale. Gallant would have stayed in Charlottesville to perfect a journal review assignment, but Goofus needed to dress in pirate gear and watch pirate movies (Friday night), then eat unseemly amounts of candy corn with Mary, Paul, and Joelle (Saturday night). Candy corn: Goofus. Boxed raisins: Gallant.

A grown Gallant probably wouldn’t celebrate this holiday at all. Gallant knows when to call it quits with Halloween. When you’re old enough to buy a Kit-Kat at CVS, you’re too old to request one in the guise of the Incredible Hulk.

I came mask-to-face with this unspoken rule at age eleven (sixth grade?), while trick-or-treating with Wodora Stapp.

Some mothers believe that Halloween etiquette sets certain candy-grubbing boundaries: if you don’t live within fifteen miles of the neighborhood, don‘t go begging for Tootsie Rolls there. Wodora’s mother did not subscribe to this nonsense. It took a good twenty minutes of travel in Mrs. Stapp’s minivan, but at 5 p.m. we idled within the high-fructose confines of the Regency Park subdivision.

Regency Park unfolded in endless blocks of identical two-story homes, most with station wagons out front, playground equipment in the back. Wodora and I stood before these houses like visitors to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. You could almost hear the Oopma Loompas chanting from behind a Foreman grill.

I don’t remember what costume I wore that year. In the past, I’d been a good witch; an Indian (Native American, as my Goan roommate at Wellesley quickly pointed out); a clown, twice. This may have been the year for Cats. My introduction to musical theater came early -- Mom and Dad had season tickets to the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, and Cats played there at least twice (though I suppose no one in Middle Tennessee will admit to attendance).

In the spirit of Webber, I wasn’t your standard painted-whiskers, synthetic-tailed feline. I trekked Regency Park in a short fake mink, tall black boots, evening gown and stockings. Jellico cats, come one, come all!

Regency Park wasn’t quite ready. At our third or fourth two-story, Wodora and I chirped “trick or treat!” but the candy bowl remained on the opposite side of the threshold. Wodora and I waited. Mrs. Stapp revved her van. The RP mom eyed my boots and tasteful black agate jewelry. She said: “Aren’t you a little old for Halloween?”

Until this moment, I’d never considered being “too old” for anything, really. I didn’t suggest playing Barbies in certain company, but the impulse was more sympathetic than remorseful -- if you want to try on lip gloss instead of crowning a new Barbie Miss America, well, you’re the guest.

RP mom didn’t deny us two Dum Dums apiece. She had made her point. Shamed two prepubescent girls on a chilly night in a strange part of town. We didn’t stop our door-to-door, but I only faked disappointment when Mrs. Stapp suggested hot chocolate and The Parent Trap. We wouldn’t return to Regency Park next year. I didn’t put away the glitter facepaint and cakey eye-pencils, but I stayed on my own street, where the Eakers and the Wises and the Sebens knew T.S. Elliot and were generous with Reese’s Cups.

It’s hard for me to smile upon the Grinch who stole Halloween. Wodora and I weren’t too old...please. We were still in elementary school.

But even if we’d been driving Mrs. Stapp’s van instead of counting our loot in the backseat, I‘d think the scorn was unnecessary. There’s the usual “Halloween comes but once a year” argument, but beyond that - why deny anyone the right to pretend? Once childhood is over, the “faking” loses its charm. Fake IDs, fake marriages, fake...you know. Past the age of 12, imagination becomes more obligatory than magical.

Except on Halloween.

Today you can be a pirate or a dinosaur or a Smurf, and no one will suggest therapy. It’s okay to play. So, I hope you will. Trick or treat.