Skeletons in your closet

Halloween is nearing and with it comes a slew of memories surrounding the spooky holiday. Over the years I have eaten tons of the sugary stuff, uttered the phrase 'trick-or-treat' with the hopes of scoring something especially good, stuck my face in ice water chasing an elusive apple, and worn multiple plastic masks with holes through which I could peek while hopefully avoiding tripping over branches, roots and other children. Halloween is filled with child-friendly ritual. Now I am the mom and my job is to purchase said sugary stuff and toss it into plastic pumpkins and pillowcases thrust forward eagerly by princesses, pirates, and all manner of cute and ghoulish pint-sized characters. As we make our plans for Cora who has borrowed a lovely Pocahontas costume this year, I am remembering. Every year I hoped to dress as a Princess. Not any particular princess, and certainly not a Disney princess. Costumes weren't so specific in my childhood. (Although one year my brother was the most adorable Casper the Friendly Ghost.) I simply wanted to wear a frilly pink dress with lots of lace and a glittery crown. I wanted to fee beautiful, and in my mind that costume was the magic ticket to be the fairest girl on the block. It did not matter that October 31st in South Dakota meant covering myself head-to=toe with warm coats and other woolens. When I was 7 or 8 my mother was hospitalized in the days leading up to Halloween. As was true for most children of the day, moms were generally responsible for the purchase of costumes. The day snuck up on us, and as it turned out my dad completely forgot it was Halloween. When he stopped to visit my mom after work she questioned why he was not at home dressing my brother and I for the annual begging of candy from the neighbors. My dad rushed to the nearest store seeking costumes for Bob and myself, finding one in each appropriate size. I was not a princess. The pretty pink dresses had sold out long before that fateful Halloween eve. Nope. I was a skeleton. A skeleton does not lead a girl to feel pretty. But it was worse than that. I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. I had knock-knees, glasses, and I was horribly skinny. My constant accesory was a book and I got perfect grades, but I had no ability to do anything physical. I was always the last pick on the playground and the kids taunted me by labelling me a skeleton. And now I had to dress as one? What kind of crazy irony was that? I sobbed my heart out and my poor dad now had a wife struggling with a sick heart and a heart-sick child. Somehow he got me out the door to fill my pumpkin with that beloved sugary stuff, and I came away with my only real 'story' to tell my children about Halloween-past. There must be a photo somewhere...