He’d never done anything wrong; his one aspiration in life was to grow into the likeness of his parents, which he did. But after Mom and I found him and brought him home with us, all his hopes and dreams ended abruptly.
Mom carried him into the kitchen, made her way to the cutlery drawer, and picked up her weapon of choice. She stabbed him with her steely knife, even though he was no beast. After she cut out the top of his head, she dug out his brain. Even though he hadn’t seemed to be a seedy character, I was proved wrong as she pulled out stringy threads mixed with flat, white lumps. With his cranium hollowed out, he was a blank canvas waiting to be transformed. Mom carved through his thick skin, creating a nose and eyes, all triangles, and a toothy grin, which took more expertise than I had. We placed a candle into his hollowed out head, lit it, and, voila, Jack became a lantern. Then we placed him on top of the planter box near the front door, where he sat for several days.
Every year, the week of Halloween, my elementary school hosted a carnival. My classmates and I visited various classrooms, each room decorated differently and offering various games.
One particular year, I heard a classmate say, “Go into that room. It’s cool,” as he pointed to the room that was next in my path. I followed the other kids, like a sheep following its herd off a cliff. We rounded the corner into the locker room - a dark, closet-type room with no door on either end, where we put our belongings each school day.
That locker room was by far the scariest place I’d been all night. With people before and behind me, there was no quick exit. I heard screeches from the girls in front of me, as each put their hands into paper bags to try to identify the contents. Spaghetti was brains. Peeled grapes were eyeballs, etc. Being the Shyest Human Being in the History of the Universe, I held my breath when it was my turn, rather than bring attention to myself by screaming, “Let me out of this dungeon.” Grateful to be alive, I rushed out of the locker room and into the much brighter hallway.
Every year, when the last day of October finally arrived, I’d put on my costume hours before the sun went down. Picking out a costume rivaled picking out a prom dress; it was a huge deal. After I completed elementary school, costume shopping became even more labor intensive. As a mature junior high student, I was too grown up to wear silky, character-themed jumpsuits that slipped on over my clothes and tied at the back of my neck. And I preferred makeup, rather than thin plastic masks with eyeholes and a string that went around the back of my head to hold the mask in place.
So Mom, and often my grandmother, would help me with costumes. I loved having something nobody else would have; there’s nothing more disappointing than seeing three other Caspers, in addition to yourself, walking around your neighborhood. My favorite homemade costume was the 1976 Bicentennial Uncle Sam outfit sewn by my grandmother, complete with a top hat and cane that Mom made.
Out of 365 days every year, October 31 took the longest for the sun to go down; it couldn't get dark fast enough. As dusk gave way to brighter stars, little creatures began emerging from their houses, crowding the sidewalks with their parents and friends.
As we went door to door, I hoped for the big score - chocolate candy. Those were the “best houses.” The worst were the Hard Candy Houses. What was the point of that? It wasn't real candy; it was the stuff that old ladies kept in glass jars, from the previous December, until the candies somehow became one with their wrappers. A Butterfinger or Baby Ruth or Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups trumped everything else. Carmel apples were too messy for me, so I gave those away. And I didn't eat popcorn balls unless Mom made them; all I could picture was some stranger’s hands forming them right after picking her nose. No, thank you. I wanted treats that were wrapped by machines. We went to all the houses on at least two blocks, since we knew most of our neighbors.
When my stepkids, Mario and Zelda, were young, Flash and I opted to take them to fall festivals held at various churches, rather than trick-or-treating. There were no scary costumes, no worries about having to skip houses where we didn't know the people who lived there, and there was plenty of candy. Most festivals had carnival-type games set up - bean bag tosses, rings tosses, fishing for prizes, cake walks. Added to that was face painting, hot dogs, popcorn, and more. It was great fun every year, and eventually we added trick-or-treating back into our regimen, after we’d met more of our neighbors.
We’ve carried on those traditions with Cowboy, but it took a few years to teach how trick-or-treating worked. Being a lover of people and houses, Cowboy had spent years visiting others, as well as touring model homes. We’d worked hard to teach him that we only go to the homes of people we know; we don't go to strangers’ houses.
But suddenly, Cowboy’s world changed; we were teaching him to knock on doors of neighbors who Flash and I knew were safe, but who were virtually strangers to Cowboy.
We would walk up to a house, and encourage Cowboy to knock on the door, as we tried to stop him from ringing the doorbell over and over. The owner would open the door, and Cowboy would proceed to walk on in, as if we'd been invited to dinner. Every. Single. Time. As we lunged to stop him, he made it past the foyers and into living rooms a few times, paying no attention to the bucket of candy the owner was holding. They were all gracious about it, but every year we had to review trick-or-treat etiquette, including candy selection. While all the other kids would wait for treats to be dropped in their bags, Cowboy would peruse through the contents to find what met his dietary restrictions, as we verbally instructed him.
Last weekend, since it had been a few years since we’d attended one, we took Cowboy to a fall festival. As Flash parked the car, I told him, “I didn’t think there would be this many little kids,” as if I were allergic to them. Clearly, I’d forgotten the target audience of most fall festivals on the planet. Now, dear reader, I love children. But the place was crawling with them. I’d pictured the event with large, organized booths of activities, things to buy, and plenty of food to purchase.
Instead, it was a maze of paths through a virtual pumpkin extravaganza, with five games for the little ones, as well as two inflatable bounce houses, and free popcorn. As I watched Cowboy walk around, surrounded by children, it looked like a scene from the old Land of the Giants television show.
Unlike in his younger years, Cowboy’s first priority was picking out a pumpkin to buy. Two minutes after arriving to the festival, he’d he picked out a gourd from the Land of the Giant Pumpkins; it was the largest one I’ve ever seen. He proceeded to walk to the checkout line.
“Cowboy, why don’t we wait to buy that, so you don’t have to carry it the whole time?” I asked, intent on avoiding hernia surgery.
He conceded, and indulged us in playing a couple of games, clearly unimpressed. He wanted to jump in the inflatable, but I had visions of small children bouncing through the roof when my monstrous son joined them. So instead of jumping, he went down an inflatable slide, before we went for popcorn, the only food on the premises other than raw pumpkins.
Rather than luscious candy being plentiful, there was a clear prejudice against chocolate at that festival. Nothing but suckers. An atrocity during Famous Candy Holidays, such as Halloween and Valentine’s Day.
It was our shortest visit to a festival, of any kind, in our parenting years. As Cowboy walked to the car with his pumpkin - a pumpkin that will be painted, rather than slaughtered - I realized he had outgrown children’s festivals. Rather than disappointment, I feel pride. Next year, we’ll attend some grown-up festivals, with booths of wares for sale; my son is a shopper. And we’ll make sure they’re serving a three-course meal and good candy; my son is an eater. And maybe they’ll have some games for people over three feet tall; we’re all game players.
In the meantime, Cowboy still has plenty to do this season. Last week, he participated in a Halloween-themed 3K walk, as a fundraiser for his vocational program.
A few days before, I’d asked him, “What costume do you want to wear?” as I listed options I knew he liked.
“World traveler?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
That was fitting; with his affinity for trips, it’s a role he plays well.
But 15 minutes before we needed to leave the house, he changed his mind. I walked into his room to find the cutest jester I’ve ever seen. And that was perfect for him, too; he’s a joy maker.
Tomorrow night, we’ll take Cowboy’s favorite walk of the year. He’s been counting down since October 1, as he does every year. We’ll go to houses of people we know, and my 21-year-old jester will dig through countless buckets and bowls to find those coveted sweets he looks forward to. He’ll try to enter only the homes of people we know well. But he may insist that we drive across town to specific friends’ houses, which we’ve done before, to see what they’re handing out.
So keep your porch light burning. Your house may be next.