Life is full of tough questions. What’s my purpose? Will my children visit me when I’m old? Why can I never hit the Power Ball? Good questions all. But those are adult questions and pale in comparison to the big one that faces children each fall: what will I be for Halloween?
It was one that vexed me year after year. Certainly, there were costumes in stores, but not to the level of authenticity we see today. These days you can get a costume so real the character you want to be, you look like you walked off a movie set. Besides, my parents never went for the store-bought stuff. I guess their attitude was “why spend money on something you’ll only wear once and then hang in the closet or throw away”? Hmm…you mean like a graduation gown or a bride’s maid dress? (Which make great Halloween costumes, by the way).
I was seven and we had recently moved from Georgia to North Carolina. Wanting to stick with our Georgia roots and knowing I was a newspaper comics fan, my mother had purchased a Pogo costume. For those who don’t know, and there are likely many who don’t, Pogo was a comic strip written by Walt Kelly. It was centered around Pogo the Opossum who lived in the Okefenokee Swamp. It was some of the best political satire of its day, in my opinion. Old Pogo and his friends were giving it to the politicians long before Doonesbury, which is another strip I really liked.
I must admit I was excited to be one of my comic strip heroes. However, when I realized I was the only kid on my block, or school for that matter, who knew about Pogo, the thrill was gone. Embarrassment took its place. It’s one thing when the kids don’t get it, even the parents weren’t sure who I was pretending to be. “And what…err…who are you supposed to be?”
“Pough,” was the best reply that I could shove through the small slit in the mask where the mouth was.
“Who?”
At this point I would raise the mask and say “Pogo.”
“Oh…. right…uh, well, Happy Halloween,” they would reply in a tone that told me the didn’t know Pogo and that I was truly scaring them, but not in the fun Halloweenie way folks are used to. Some of them took a step back when I tried to explain. I can respect that. Truly, no one wants to see a opossum at their door, especially one that’s three feet tall and begging for candy.
That was the only time I got to wear one of those cheap plastic masks with he rubber band that always got tangled in your hair resulting in something called “Halloween patterned baldness”. Just as well, there was nothing fun about having the condensation from your breath on the inside of the mask making your face wet. And who thought two pinholes would give a kid running from house to house in the dark with twice the level of sugar in his blood enough air to keep from passing out? An adult, of course.
The rest of my Halloweens were spent in costumes thrown together from whatever was on hand. One year I wore my brother’s football helmet. My senior by eight years, I looked like one of those bobble headed statues they give out at ball games. At least I didn’t get the question “what are you supposed to be” that year.
That’s in direct contrast to the year I went as a World War I flying ace. Snoopy from the “Peanuts” comic strip was also a hero. His adventures battling the Red Baron are what inspired me to read about the famous aces of WWI. I didn’t have the leather helmet, but I did have the scarf, a jacket, and some goggles. I enjoyed being Snoopy for a night despite the same routine at every house.
“Trick or treat!”
“And what…err… who are you supposed to be?”
“A World War I flying ace like Snoopy,” was the reply which flowed more easily since I didn’t have the restriction of a plastic mask.
“Oh, right…uh, say, you’re the kid who was the big rat.”
“Opossum!”
“Right, whatever.” Then a piece of second-tier candy would hit the bottom of the sack. I never got a rock like Charlie Brown, but I think some folks were tempted. I would have taken it with pride. I’m a big fan of Charlie, too.
When I hit 13, I decided that would be my last night of trolling for candy. As such, I also decided to go out in style.
We had a friend who sang opera. She had quite a voice and quite a makeup kit. She agreed to give me a professional, stage-quality Dracula face. And that she did! My hair was slicked back. I already have a natural widow’s peak which she accentuated with dark makeup. My face was done in deathly white. The finishing touch were the fangs. We cut up those plastic vampire fangs kids use. Then used mortician’s wax to stick the upper and lower fangs on my canine teeth. The effect was perfect. A little too perfect.
At the end of the night as I was preparing for bed, I went to brush my teeth. By this time, I was so comfortable in my new makeover, I forgot I was wearing it. One look in the mirror and I knew why vampires can’t see their reflection. Forget the wooden stake, that alone would scare them back into their box for good.
While I had set out to scare folks that night, I didn’t know it would be me. Oh well, at least no one asked, “Who are you supposed to be?”
