As I write . . .
It’s windy. It’s warm. It’s dry. There are only 11 days to Halloween and it’s 70-something degrees outside. It’s not right. It’s not fair. I think I’ll pull something out from the desk drawer . . .
* * *
When I harken back to those joy-filled days of my youth, my recollections of Halloween are sketchy at best. I admit, I find this kind of disheartening because I like to think my memory is razor sharp. And, while I’m still holding to my belief of a good memory, I’m putting an asterisk next to it.
*Memory good, with the exception of recalling Halloween.
I’m not sure why, either. I like Halloween. I may not be a card-toting member of the local Club O’Wicca, but, with Celtic-blood pumping through my heart and veins, it’s natural for me to find a connection with this Christian/pagan holiday. I just don’t remember much about Halloweens past.
Maybe I’d remember it better if there were Halloween carols just like at Christmastime.
I am surprised Halloween experiences have not stuck with me.
The aspect of going door to door, simply repeating the mantra, ‘Trick or treat,? while holding open a sack for folks to dole out the sweets, resonates well with me. Of Irish/Scot lineage, I liked/like the idea of getting stuff that other folks paid for, for nothing. El-free-boes are great. In a word, I guess that makes me: CHEAP.
I would have thought I would remember all the costumes and everything else about the spookiest time of the year. I mean, I like monster movies and scary books. I guess I always have. Recently, while watching the 1941 classic werewolf movie, the Wolf Man, starring Lon Chaney, Jr., as the tormented Lawrence Talbot, I remembered something from when I first watched the movie on the Sir Graves Ghastly show. It was a Saturday afternoon in the early 1970s. The television was on Channel 2, airing was the horror-movie host (my local TV hero), Sir Graves.
When I saw the bipedal Wolfman run, I turned to Dad and asked, ‘Why does the Wolfman run on his toes??
Dad, ever the old movie buff, shook his head. ‘I don’t know, son. It could be a side effect of lycanthropy, but I couldn’t be sure. However, I bet Sir Graves knows.?
Well, when the flick ended and we turned on the lights, I set pen to paper and posed that question to Sir Graves. It was the first of many letters and drawings sent by yours truly, from our little Clarkston house on the hill to Sir Graves? Southfield address. And, despite faithfully watching him nearly every Saturday until his show went off the air, despite sending him Christmas cards, drawings of Godzilla, Frankenstein as well as portraits of himself, I never did get an answer. (So much for being a loyal viewer who turned off the lights, pulled down the shades and curled up next to the tellie, as he was told to by the host.)
I can remember Sir Graves, the letters and the movies, but as for the harrowing Halloween exploits of one Donald P. Rush Halloween, it’s all foggy.
As a matter of fact, about the only thing I can remember about Halloween (other than I actually participated as a kid) is the weather.
I do remember times when it was cold, rained and snowed. So, now when I think of Halloween I think of being cold, wet and snowed on. Wet, slushy snow; green makeup running down my face, arms and hands into my soggy, candy-filled linen. The one year I remember — the aforementioned slushy-snowy year — I shredded the pant legs to an old pair of Levis and a t-shirt from my little sister Barb (When I report the words ‘Little? and ‘Barb? together, I mean little. She’s now, at her tallest, 4-foot-11), stretched it over my big head, painted by face, arms, legs, (basically all showing body parts) green.
I was the Incredible Hulk, err — Bulk.
And, I was cold and miserable.
And, when this is published, ,there will be only nine days until Halloween. I doubt it will be snowy or cold.
Bitter? Nah, not me!
Comments for your happy haunter, Rush, can be e-mailed to: firstname.lastname@example.org
As I write . . .