Thoughts from under a witch hat

Thoughts from under a witch hat
Thursday, November 2, 2006

I have great memories of Halloween.
My mother, like many mothers of her generation, felt conflicted enough about having a high-powered career that she would hand-sew my Halloween costumes in an attempt to be more like *her* mother. Together we could come up with a theme, then venture to downtown Houston fabric stores to pore over polka-dotted cottons, purple lace edgings, rhinestone buttons.
The first of these that I can remember was a tiny pink taffeta princess outfit from a Vogue pattern, which was originally meant to be worn by flower girls. This was about 1980. The following year, we chose Alice in Wonderland - also taffeta, this time a fluffy blue dress with a stiff white apron. I was troubled that I didn't have yellow hair (a stickler for detail, I was already quite familiar with the Disney paradigm), but the overall effect was marvelous, complete with white knee socks and shiny patent leather shoes.
As our neighborhood near Rice University was relatively low on children during the Reagan years, I was sometimes invited to canvass in my friend's kid-filled neighborhood across the city. These special Halloweens featured my friend's father screening cartoons on a sheet hung up on the front lawn, several dozen sugar-hyped children predominantly in "Star Wars" outfits, distribution of antiquated treats such as popcorn balls and caramel apples, and my preschool proprietress tossing fistfuls of candy from her roof, dressed as a witch in stripy socks.
Up until this point, I have passed my adult life in places conspicuously lacking in trick-or-treating, largely due to the scarcity of children on university campuses. Last year, however, was our first Halloween in Marblehead - a small town, and teeming with kids. I felt certain that our street in Old Town would be ground zero for prime trick-or-treating.
"I can't wait," I said to my friend the psychiatrist, who was dressed in a huge yellow Sugar Daddy costume. We were at a Halloween party on the Saturday night before Halloween, eating cheese straws baked to look like severed fingers. I sported a black cocktail dress, spindly heels, fake hooked rubber nose, and tall pointy witch hat.
"We have stocked upso much candy. Of course, I bought it too early, so I ate an entire bag of fun-sized Junior Mints by myself. Then I had to buy more."
The psychiatrist laughed with approval. I had even planned to recycle my witch hat for passing out chocolates.
On Monday afternoon, Halloween proper, everything was in place. I walked the puppy early so that he would be relaxed and asleep by nightfall. While out, I spotted one disinterested-looking young wizard wielding a plastic battleaxe, and knew that we had to hurry. By 4:30 we were home. I posted a sign on our front door ("Attention tricksters!" It read in spooky font. "Treats available! But the Haunted Doorbell has died a horrible death. So.... you must yell loudly enough to be heard on Ye Olde Seconde Floor! Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!"), turned on all the lights, left the door ajar, plopped my witch hat on my head, and settled on the sofa with a book to wait.
And I waited.
And waited.
Half an hour, 45 minutes passed. The dusk started to gather into night. I heard giggling in the street outside, but no one approached our house.
My husband appeared in the living-room doorway, munching an apple and smiling indulgently at my witch-hatted self. "Any takers yet?" he asked. I shook my head, and was surprised by how sad I felt.
While walking the puppy that afternoon I had noticed some houses with signs saying, "This house has been ghosted!" It occurred to me that this signage might signify a pre-approved house for candy gathering. Could it be that kids were only going to pre-visited houses? I put my chin on the back of the sofa and stared out the window down to the street below. My witch hat drooped to one side.
What a sad commentary on our culture. That fear of the unknown would cause us to go to great lengths to simulate the appearance of community for our children, when in fact our precautions ensure the dissolution of it. So many of the pleasures I remember from my own childhood - seesaws, monkey swings, tree-climbing, to say nothing of soliciting massive amounts of candy and homemade treats from total strangers - have been sanitized out of the childhoods that are under way today. When my husband and I finally get around to having a child of our own, I suspect that I will also morph into my own mother, putting aside my writing and research to ineptly assemble overly complex Vogue-pattern Halloween costumes for my too-exacting child.
But will there be anyone willing to knock on strange doors with us? Will the people behind the doors even want us there? No one makes popcorn balls anymore to be sure, but in 15 years will they even still sell "fun-size" candies to hand out?
Will we still have Halloween?
I reached into the candy bowl and fished out my umpteenth box of Junior Mints. As I started to outline this theory to the puppy, I heard a voice downstairs.
It was an adult woman's voice, whispering, explaining to someone that they needed to yell loud. Just then, two itty-bitty voices from deep within matching caterpillar costumes let loose with a rollicking "TRICK OR TREAT!"
But by then, I was already halfway down the stairs.