One
Halloween, Mother turned the rag bag inside out, holding up for my inspection
the lint-flecked navy wool from Daddy’s sailor days and the rhinestone-sprinkled
circle skirt she’d worn ten years before on New Year’s Eve.
I finally
settled for a gaudy, paisley shift, cinched tight around the middle with a
flamboyant silk scarf. A knotted string of cut-glass beads and a pair of
clinking Mason jar rings dangling from one ear made me a fairly authentic
gypsy, Mama said.
I stood
patiently as she rubbed my cheeks with lipstick over cold cream, taking care to
feather out the edges, before adding an eyebrow-penciled beauty mark for good
luck.
That was
then. Now, I rummage for my own kids’
costumes, but somehow their father’s cast-off baseball jersey and their mom’s satin bridesmaid dress will not do for youngsters set on extorting
treats by virtue of their striking similarity to space-age spooks like Darth
Vader and E.T.
It was bad
enough when Michael hacked my flexible dryer venting hose in two for the arms of
the robot he aspired to be.
And I could
barely cope when Jennifer dismantled the kitchen stove so she could use the door
for the head of her computer creature costume.
But when Stacee left the goldfish in the toilet with a “Do Not Flush” sign, so she could borrow his bowl for her astronaut suit helmet, I was the one who went into orbit.
Moments later, three space-age spooks
timidly attempted to break the glassy-eyed silence I maintained.
“What are you going to be for Halloween?”
I heard my children ask.
“A basket
case,” they heard their mother say!
 ! |
Matt and Mike back in the day when creating a Halloween costume didn't involve dismantling the house. |
