Halloween for Real

The holiday that always let me down is finally looking up.

When I was young, I broke my ankle three years in a row, each time shortly before Halloween. It was a bummer, but my brother John collected candy for me, which wasn’t a bad deal. I stayed cozy and inert on the couch while he roamed the streets, sharing with an increasingly skeptical neighborhood audience my broken ankle stories, proffering for handouts both his pillowcase and mine.

          Truthfully, even before my ankle crapped out, Halloween was a disappointment. Equipped with an unrealistic imagination, I thought that wearing my costume would magically turn me into the character it represented. I genuinely believed the cheap Tinkerbelle get-up from A & P could transform a chubby five-year-old with bangs two inches above her unibrow into a golden-haired fairy capable of flight.

          Time passed, and things didn’t get any better. Sam would stay home and sullenly pass out candy while the kids and I slogged door to door in the frigid dark if we were lucky, or driving rain, sleet, or snow if we weren’t. Then there were the years I had to avoid half the neighbors because Jake had t.p.’d their trees the night before.

          Now that the kids are grown, I am free to do what I’ve long wanted to do on Halloween: pretend it’s not happening. But guess what?  I am on my way to North Carolina to trick or treat with my grandson Henry in a town where zero reputation precedes me. Henry is not even one yet, and no doubt there will be a lot of holding and cuddling involved, which is perfect, since I’ll be going as nana, a character I have magically turned into.