By Maggie Beamguard
At month’s end, little witches, minions and Minecraft characters will storm Baker Circle in Seven Lakes West and neighborhood streets throughout the Sandhills.
Halloween approaches and children face the difficult decision of deciding what costume they will sport. There will be superheros and cartoon characters, dinosaurs and unicorns. Your costume choice speaks volumes about you, so even children know this is one of the most important decisions of the year.
As a child faced with the exciting prospect of selecting my dramatis personae, the Ben Cooper and Collegeville companies provided the pop-culture selections before me. Sesame Street, Star Wars, Flintstones, Chips, D.C. and Marvel comics were the rage. Their petroleum-based, vacuum-molded masks and accompanying tissue-thin, vinyl ponchos made for an individual chamber of horrors.
A core memory involves slipping on a Raggedy Ann mask and catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. I pulled back. And then I pulled close. Pushing myself up on the credenza below the mirror with my hands, I stared hauntingly from blue-circled holes and wiggled my eyebrows. The mouth, with a permanent, wide grin had a little slit in it. I could not control the impulse to stick my tongue through it. Ouch! Blood.
By the time I reached the end of our driveway, sweat beaded on my neck. The plastic string holding the mask a smidge too tight against my face sliced into the tops of my ears. My little lungs labored to maximize the intake of oxygen and the expulsion of carbon dioxide through my two hole punched nostrils. I envied my friend’s Strawberry Shortcake costume. Her mask was berry-scented, a chemically enhanced luxury compared to the PVC vapors I inhaled.
Only the promise of candy allayed my but momentary suffering – anything for candy corn, Hubba Bubba and Fun Dip. At least some SweeTarts might get the taste of blood out of my mouth.
How was I to know the unintentional fear I provoked upon standing at my elderly next-door neighbor’s doorstep, holding out a plastic pumpkin? Her porchlight casting harsh shadows upon my unnerving, frozen smile, I exclaimed a muffled, “Trick-or-treat!”
Winnie was a chain smoker. So it was a Hallow’s Eve miracle she didn’t fling her Virginia Slim in fright and run screaming while my Raggedy Ann costume burst into flames. It could be a premise for a Hollywood Horror flick. Thankfully Winnie maintained her composure and with a sprinkle of ash, dropped some Bit O Honey into my pumpkin.
If we survived the night without further injury, my friends and I would scurry home, ripping off the masks before the plastic strings popped. We anxiously waited for our parents to check our candy for razor blades. And finally we could enjoy the spoils earned through our misery.
As they parade around our neighborhoods, today’s trick-or-treaters will never know the plastic terrors we faced, the gasping through fumes for the sake of a sweet treat. But I suppose that is all for the best. Let those old masks stay in their landfills.
Still, I’ll see you on Baker Circle with some Bit O Honey for old-time’s sake.
