Nostalgia in Disguise
by Stephanie Piper
It's a sort of instinct at this time of year, like squirrels gathering nuts for the winter or bears finding themselves a nice, deep hibernation cave.
Come late October, I feel a compulsion to rush through fabric stores in search of black cloth, glitter and a side order of adrenaline.
It's a carryover from my years as resident costume designer for three sons, none of whom ever made the Disguise Decision until 4 p.m. on October 31.
Not for them the lovingly crafted clown suits or cowboy outfits whipped up in August by June Cleaver types whose purpose in life was to make me feel inadequate. Not for them the wildly expensive Dracula get-ups ordered by rich suburban mothers from the F.A.O. Schwarz catalog, nor the plastic horrors reduced to half-price at the 5&10 as the witching hour drew near. And not for them anything simple, like a sheet with two holes for eyes.
No, these boys had been raised to think big. They took it on faith that I could transform them into bearded, cauldron-toting wizards and blood-oozing mummies at the drop of a suggestion.
It's true that I do my best work on deadline, but we cut it pretty close some years. Scouring the Chicago suburbs for dry ice (that cauldron had to smoke) at rush hour is one vivid memory. Re-wrapping the mummy four times before dusk is another.
There was a kind of innocence about Halloween in those days before razor blades and cyanide in the candy corn. A young friend summed it up for me recently: "For one night, you were encouraged to do the things your parents told you never to do: run around in the dark and take candy from strangers."
And there was a method to the madness, a ritual as important as the 11th hour costume design. First the pumpkin, carved on the front porch with a maximum of mess and a minimum of safety. Candle stubs impaled on large, dangerous nails and lit and re-lit with boxes of matches provided the flickering light.
Then early dinner, completely irrelevant on this night of epic sugar consumption, followed by the annual Scare Dad ceremony. This involved darkening the house, hiding in the bushes, and jumping out shrieking as the weary breadwinner arrived off the 6:43.
The whole thing wound down by 9 p.m. with candy sorting on the living room floor. The good stuff (chocolate, bubble gum) was separated from mediocre plunder like apples and lollipops, and the serious trading began.
There are seasons to our lives, and my Halloween era wound down years ago. Now I admire the last-minute Lion King mane on someone else's six-year-old and wave at a new generation of parents who huddle in the driveway while their kids dart up my porch steps.
A creature of habit, I still stock up on the mini-Hershey bars and carve a formidable pumpkin. No one has asked me recently for dry ice or bat capes, but I stand prepared.
And I can make you a great deal on some slightly used mummy wrappings.
October 30, 2003 * Vol. 13, No. 44
© 2003 Metro Pulse
| 
