The house is in a whirlwind of anticipation. My wife and my soon to be 16-year-old daughter are running to and fro buying fabric, candies, decorations, etc., all in preparation for the most ghoulish of holidays – Halloween.
You would think the Messiah is close at hand with all the excitement! I can smell wonderful things being cooked in the kitchen. Cakes, cookies and other assorted sweets are being made for a party for friends and company next week.
Soon the sewing machine will be humming, whirring out yards of cloth to make my daughter into a beautiful and elaborate Snow White. The metamorphosis is beginning and by next week, it will be complete. My little, rotten 16-year-old daughter will become an angelic Snow White for a day. She will probably still want very little to do with her father afterwards.
So here is the problem as I see it. Not to be a naysayer or a Mr. Scrooge, but I hate Halloween. I have never liked it. Even as a little kid all dressed up as some robot or motorcycle, I was so uncomfortable asking for treats. Why couldn’t they just give them to me without all the hassle?
I don’t understand all the fuss. The last thing I want to be is someone other than myself. It is exactly my problem in reverse. I want to be more of me, not less. Escaping into becoming some bucolic angel or hobgoblin doesn’t make me any happier; it just feels all wrong. I need to stand sure footed in my own shoes, grounded to the earth below, seeking with a little help of Sigmund and Co. to come to grips more with the me that is wiser, bigger and stronger. Maybe this year I should simply beg for treats not as some angelic Mr. Hyde, but just as plain old boring me on stilts.
Well the festivities have begun, the autumn leaves are falling, the smell of wood burning in fireplaces is in the air, and I can feel all the happy little kids around me dreaming of all the treats to come next week.
This un-bemused photographer will fight to the death to keep any pumpkins off his head at least until next year.