Halloween Homerun
Entire neighborhoods are currently aglow in orange and purple lights. Yards are crammed full of giant inflatable witches and arched-back cats. Skeletons-- who used to (back in my day) hang from trees—are tethered, their metatarsals staked by anchors boasting cables that connect to funny bones as their calcified heads soar well above roof lines.
Apparently, it’s almost Halloween.
When our kids were young, the world wasn’t quite so goblin crazy. We couldn’t order Halloween costumes on Amazon. You could buy popular characters like Cinderella or Batman in a package at the discount store, or if you were lucky enough to have a chain like “Party Galaxy” or some equally twinning giant by a different name nearby, you could pick from all sorts of accessories to create an original outfit all your own. The first option produced a get-up that typically fell apart by the time you got it on, and the second was overwhelming. So, mostly, our kids dressed up in made-from-scratch concoctions. One year they were both University of Oklahoma football players sporting eye black and heavy (the real thing!) helmets with shoulder pads I swear Steve Owens wore. One year, Colton was a scarecrow in burlap and straw—a homemade job sewed by Granny that took the neighborhood and school by storm but had to poke and itch like crazy in real time. Chandler, enamored with a long, dark Elvira wig, had a three-year witch phase before morphing into a one-and-done as Marilyn Monroe.
Halloween was “Oh my gosh next week is trick-or-treating!” at our house, but we slid into it like a runner beating the throw to second base. We gave it all we had.
One fall, when both the kids were old enough to be excited about a candy-chase but neither was yet too cool to don a costume and go, Dane decided to jazz up the sidewalk that ran from our driveway through a courtyard area leading to our front door. “A mini haunted house,” he said. Interpretation: lots and lots of trips to the store and a full-out family affair.
He stretched fake spider webs and hung plastic bats and skeletons from the trees. I stuffed a hay bale under the doorbell on the porch and Granny topped it with a fat green witch who waved a battery-operated wart-infested finger she purchased at the Dollar Store.
“Now all we need is spooky music!” Colton chimed in hopefully.
His vision would not be denied.
Dane found a haunted soundtrack complete with ghoulish screams and ominous bass chords that he set to play on a loop through outdoor speakers connected to our living room theatre system via remote control. We tested it multiple times and each run was goosebump-worthy. The kids couldn’t wait to trick-or-treat then get back home to watch unsuspecting door-knockers get freaked out—and maybe scatter or cry or pee their pants.
On October 31st, we hit play on the spooky loop then loaded our pirate and witch to make our crosstown neighborhood runs, leaving Granny with two giant bowls of candy for the costumed visitors who would make their way through the cauldron to our front door. Pausing in the drive, we rolled down the windows to admire our gift to the neighborhood kids. Chandler buried her head as screams reverberated through the speakers. Colton laughed and cheered while Dane glowed with good-dad pride at the haunted gauntlet we’d designed. Tiny Supermen and Princesses would loooooooove coming to our house this year—or they would be terrified. Either mark would be a family homerun over the centerfield fence.
We hustled through our crosstown stops, Colton and Chandler dead-sprinting to and from the truck, their minds quasi on the candy filling up their bags and mostly on the stage we’d set back at home.
“Do you think any of the little kids got scared and started screaming?” Colton asked.
“That music is soooo creepy!” Chandler squealed, doubling both her fists and squishing both her eyes.
We cut things short and bolted home to hide and watch.
As we pulled into the driveway, Dane slowed the truck and rolled the windows down. Both kids stuck their heads out, listening breathlessly.
Then, “Survey Says!” yelled Richard Dawson, immediately followed by the belting bouncy rhythm of six-note trumpets, “Da da dahhhhhh, da da da ta da, da da dahhhhhh, da da da ta da, da da dahhhhh, da da da ta da, DA DA DAAAAAA, DA DA DAAAAAA…..!”
“What the …..????”
Our spooky soundtrack had been hijacked by Family Freaking Feud!
Unsure of whether to laugh or cry, we rushed inside to investigate.
That’s when we discovered Granny in her bedroom enjoying the game show channel on full blast.
It hadn’t crossed our minds to loop her in.
While on candy-dole-out duty, Granny had changed the TV station in the living room, vaulting the volume so she could hear. She had no idea that when she switched the indoor channel, the frequency would pipe through the outdoor speakers as well.
Imagine the confusion of the trick-or-treaters as they made their way through webs and hanging skeletons to the serenading of Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right!
We laughed until our ribs hurt.
And then we told the story to anyone who would listen, and we laughed until our ribs hurt over and over again.
I don’t really remember the perfect Christmas dinner with matching dishes, neatly folded napkins and a turkey that was exquisitely prepared (perhaps because we never had one), but the Haunted Game Show Sidewalk feels like it happened just last year.
The stuff that doesn’t turn out like you planned it somehow always seems to find a way to stick.
As we walk our grandgirls around in costumes later this month, their dad will no doubt at some point say, “Remember when we got ‘em with Family Feud?” And there we’ll go again, rolling down the road that makes us us.