Growing up, my family was not composed of Halloween People. Each year, my mom seemed to change her mind about whether or not Halloween was even okay to celebrate or if it was, you know, the devil’s holiday. Some years we did trick-or-treat, but never with fancy costumes procured weeks in advance. Instead, we used what we had around the house. Shepherds were easy to do, if you had a bathrobe. Cowboys, if you had a bandana. Put on a nice dress and a tiara and, boom, you’re a princess. Other years, we went to church-sponsored alternatives called “Harvest Festival” or some variation thereof. Kids dressed up, they played games, they got candy. Who were they fooling? It was Halloween. But this was the extent of our Halloween celebrating. I don’t even remember going to a pumpkin patch. “Did we ever carve pumpkins?” I asked my mom. “I thought we did,” she said. “But maybe that was just with your younger sisters.” Because of their general apathy towards the holiday, last week I was surprised to hear my parents reminisce about “the old Halloween parties” they used to host in their basement. “Remember when Dick Schneider came as a baby? He was only wearing a diaper,” my dad said to my mom. “No,” she said, “he wore a bonnet, too.” My parents have always been sociable people. They like hosting. They host Bible studies, family reunions, barbecues. Even my wedding was at their house. But a
Lovely writing. Thank you. I'll subscribe in January, I promise.