My house in Clarksville, Indiana had some well-deserved notoriety. It was the place where adolescent children were given an uncensored look at the miracle of childbirth (and in my defense, I did not know that my daughter was showing off those Lamaze Prepared Childbirth slides), where two teenaged football players broke my right leg; where a “Charlie Brown” Christmas tree was painted green and exchanged with a neighbor from Christmas to Easter, and where Halloween was my personal joy.
“On October 31st, say ‘Boo’ …” That was a line in a song I learned in grade school, but by the time I moved into that home in Southern Indiana, I had thoroughly embraced the philosophy. I used to have a Peavey amp and a Shure microphone. The original use for those two items was for projecting my voice when I was singing to an audience. I am creative, however, so I “up cycled” my music-making things for use in the “Halloween House Of Horrors. I would light the front steps in invitation to trick or treaters, then, darken my entryway. I would crouch in the dark, my head covered with a black sheet, my microphone taped to the base of my throat. When the doorbell rang, Bride One would swing the door open, slowly, and I would advance from the night, growling into the mic, which the amp — set on “reverb” — would horribly distort.
Kids would scream, leap and fly back into the street and into the arms of their parents. You’ve just had the most horrifying experience of your life, kids: what do you want to do next? “LET’S GO BACK!”
My granddaughter would not have been a fan of my shenanigans. She does not like masks of any kind, though she is not alone in that. When my son was a child, his mother and I took him to a birthday party bash at an establishment that has a rat as a mascot. When he saw the monster rodent ambling toward him, my son cracked goblets with his scream. My granddaughter can sit quietly and watch you put on a mask, then, freak absolutely out. She disassociates you from the masked person. As one of my favorite writers might say, “you’d best get a lot of gone between you and her.”
I took a recent ride on The Irvington Ghost Tour, which has a stop close to my door. I did not know that I had moved into ghost territory, though the creative director of this publication mumbled something about “interesting history” when I told her where I lived. Interesting, indeed: murder, most foul. But murder is most likely on the 31st of October, when my granddaughter faces the masks of the night.
I asked my daughter how the “fear of masks” thing was going, and found that all was the same. My granddaughter will dress as “American Dream,” which is the female version of “Captain America.” She will wear a small blue mask as a complement to her red, white and blue togs and cape. But she is okay being the person behind the mask. “I don’t know about the Halloween party (at kindergarten) though,” said her mother. “There might be some screaming.”
Saying “Boo” on October 31st has become an American tradition, and a Hollywood cash cow. In my current living quarters, the whole neighborhood recreates my long ago “fright house.” There, I am more likely to be spooked than to spook anyone, but in Parsippany, New Jersey, my grandchild will accept no substitutes for a real face. If your costume includes a mask, she wants nothing to do with you, boo.