We never get any trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood, so this is our whole Halloween celebration, right here, with you, Dear Readers. No candy, no costumes, no curses, no ghouls. Just a couple of photos and a memory.
Happy Halloween!
This is what late afternoons in Southeast Texas look like; the temperature on Sunday when I took this “spooky” photo was just what you’d imagine from the looks of it, a perfect 68°F. Our sole nod to Halloween this year (other than this post) is the Talavera pumpkin on the table – do you see him? For the rest of the year, we turn him around, and he’s just a big, lovely gourd.
And, just because I found it while going through pictures on my Dad’s computer recently, here’s a Halloween postcard from days gone by, circa…1968? I think I was Orphan Annie, but can’t be sure. No one in my family is left but me from those days.
I still remember how scratchy that mask was (why did Orphan Annie need a mask?!!?). My mother made the costume, as she did every year. I felt inadequate years later as a working mom because I bought my son’s costumes and didn’t live up to her standard of handmade Halloween heirlooms.
I now realize that it is being there, listening, and caring about their Halloween experience that makes the difference for a child, not who made the costume.
What are your Halloween observations this year, or memories?
Copyright 2017, Glover Gardens Cookbook
We haven’t had a single trick-or-treater since we moved to this location 19 years ago. But then, we do live on a country road. We quit buying the just-in-case candy long ago.
My introduction to halloween was as a child in India when a fellow American fourth grader (in an international school) clued me in. We plotted a prank. At the end of a school day we volunteered to help the teacher lock up, making sure that one of the windows was left unlatched. Later that afternoon we gathered some human bones (this was on the campus of a medical college) from the anatomy department’s open dumping ground, climbed through the window and scattered the bones throughout the classroom including in the teacher’s desk drawers.
The next morning the teacher, Mrs. Gajapadi, was livid. My classmate’s explanation of Halloween did nothing to quell her anger. I forget what our punishment was, but that was the one and only Halloween prank I was ever involved in.
Oh my gosh, that is a FANTASTIC story! Being a bone collector in an ad hoc way in 4th grade in India to celebrate Halloween…have you ever considered writing a book?
Ha! I once entertained the idea of a book, but only briefly. Experiences inevitably involve people. Even the years I spent living in the wilderness involved people, some of them rather unsavory. Obtaining permission from all the individuals to portray them would be an impossible task even if the portrayal was in a favorable light. Fictitious names wouldn’t be enough to mask their identities, especially from the individuals themselves. I couldn’t find a comfortable way to write about people.
This sentence makes me even more certain that a book would be so interesting: “Even the years I spent living in the wilderness involved people, some of them rather unsavory.” But I understand your reluctance. Everyone I’ve asked if I can reference them, their history / our shared history or even their photos in my blog has been very positive and agreeable; perhaps you’d be surprised by your friends’ reactions.
I guess I’m sensitive to that having been in the reverse of that situation and wasn’t so appreciative of the portrayal.
And yet, from what I know about you, you wouldn’t create portrayals that offended. I’m guessing the person who crossed your boundary wasn’t empathetic or in tune with others, not “emotionally intelligent”. You’d know what to say and what not to say, when to ask if you could share and when it was ok without asking, and when you needed to “change the names to protect the innocent”. I really believe in being careful with the stories of others, which is one reason I waited for years to talk about my brother’s manner of death. I also believe in giving credit or acknowledging others, and the folks in my life get a kick out of being mentioned. The very closest ones have chosen their own nicknames.