Debby Does…

When I was in college, living in my own apartment with my best friend, Mark, I became obsessed with celebrating what I liked to call “Fall Festival” each year. This involved me buying all sorts of little pumpkins and gourds, branches of bittersweet, and making more caramel apples than we could consume. We would have friends over for said “festival” and cozy was the theme. We made the journey to the Indiana leaf peeping mecca, Brown County, and I shopped for cute primitives and things that weren’t really marketed to the 21 year old college co-ed. That’s how I did October.

Then, someone would throw an epic Halloween party. At the time, I really loved dressing up with my boyfriend du jour and standing around the keg with my plastic cup. These Halloween parties were the stuff of legends and my roomie had a knack for picking a costume that stole the show, until a guy named Paul appeared in his annual masterpiece. We bobbed for apples, got drunk, and did college Halloween.

As I’ve gotten older, I eschew the costume party and much of the spooky season stuff. I love a cute ghost or a sweet little witch, and I’m still all in for pumpkins and gourds, but I’m not super fond of trick or treat, candy corn, or the dressing up part. I’m not sure what happened to that girl, but, at least for the past 25 years, she’s been hiding from Halloween.

My mom hated Halloween, which, as a kid, I thought was simply unheard of, ridiculous, and downright embarrassing. Though she dutifully got out our tattered decorations each year and helped me put together a homemade costume, her heart wasn’t in it. She especially disliked the trick or treating bit. I think it worried her, to be honest. Our neighborhood was dark. It was the 1970’s and the rumor mill was ripe with razor blades in apples and the like. She was a single mom who relied on other parents to add me to their group of kids, traipsing around the neighborhood, filling our bags, and trying to breathe through that tiny slit in the plastic masks we wore.

Once I was home, she set aside her essays and grading, to go through my bag, one treat at a time. Things I didn’t like inevitably ended up in the faculty room at school. Things I liked went into a basket, placed on a top shelf to be doled out with constraint. Candy cigarettes went directly into the trash.

Distasteful, she declared.

I rolled my eyes, wondering what I had done to deserve such a Puritanical mother.

One year, during middle school, a friend announced a huge party on the night of trick or treat. It was the social event of the season. When the invitation to Chrissy Pierson’s big bash arrived, I knew that I had reached the pinnacle of cool. I mean, I might not even wear my headgear that night.

I planned my costume with care. I would be a cat. No one else would even dare. Black satin unitard, ears, whiskers courtesy of my mom’s eyebrow pencil, and my well worn black ballet slippers. I tried it on several times and declared it perfect, not some kiddie costume bought at the Jamesway.

Then, there was an incident.

My mom and I had a disagreement. As a moody (nearly) teenager with a burning need for the last word, this was not completely out of the ordinary at our house. To this day, I do not recall what the trigger was, though practicing the piano was always up there for debate.

In the heat of the argument, I said, “Mom, you are a pain in my neck.”

Then I stopped myself and felt my anger bubbling up inside me.

“No, you’re not a pain in the neck. You ‘re a pain in the ass.”

If you have had the pleasure of meeting my mother, you might imagine what transpired next.

In an instant, the party, the cat costume, and several other weeks of activities disappeared from my agenda.

In a few days, we found our way back to each other to talk about it. She understood my burst of anger and regretted her own that came in the form of a smack across the face. Secretly, I think she was relieved I would be home, safe, and accounted for on that dark Halloween night, though it was an incident that we talked about many times over the years, finally finding the laughter in my insolence!

Memories are funny. If I could visit that house on Wilkie Boulevard where I grew up, I could take you to the exact spot where we battled that night. My mom had her back to the closet that held the vacuum cleaner. As I faced her I could see the only Halloween decoration I remember from my childhood: a paper bat with grommets to let its wings spread. I was terrified of it for some reason, even though it was more cartoon-like than scary. It was always thumbtacked up on that closet door each October and then back in the attic on November 1st.

That bat, that night have never left my memory. I don’t know that it has anything to do with my Halloween issues, but it’s there, lingering, in the way that memories do.

This year, I’m in a new house, in a new neighborhood, with all of my fall decor still in packed boxes. I don’t know how many trick or treaters we may have or what kind of mischief night pranks may occur. I’ve got my new fall wreath ready to hang on my new front door (if it ever comes in), my cute pumpkin basket ready to be filled with candy, and there will be something special baked in my new kitchen to mark the occasion.

There won’t be any paper bats or spooky stuff and, when the doorbell rings, I will probably hide like I always do, hesitant to make conversation with strangers, listening to my husband charm everyone who visits.

Then, I’ll pack it all away in the attic with these annual feelings until next year. Maybe next year will be the year of the cat, since that other year, so long ago, was clearly the year of the ass.