Well, one of the many nights that changed my life.
Recall that picture of the L.A. Dodgers baseball-shaped AM radio?
No, I didn't come close to death and then suddenly pull away from The Light and breathe again with a new outlook on life, a new tenderness toward my fellow man.
Well... sort of.
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Mom had just finished a two week run of performances with her sisters and Andy Williams, as they did many times a year in those days.
We were packing up, getting ready to drive back home to the San Fernando Valley... and
I kept digging at it, and by the time we were halfway to Barstow and my chest and neck were searing and itchy, my mother had officially diagnosed me:
I was just seven years old.
Oh, it wasn't the itching that was bothering me. Not as bad as I probably made it seem, anyway.
come down with it and knew it meant at least two weeks of fevery, irritated, Calamine-soaked convalescence... and Hallowe'en was only a week away.
Yes, friends. Your humble pubkeep was going to MISS OUT ON HALLOWE'EN.
of a God who would let such a monstrous thing come to pass. I was mad, and surly, and itchy and ill, and put out in the way only a truly bent out of shape child can be.
Well, okay... I wasn't really like that (though it was indeed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time). Fact is, I was honestly too sick for some few days to even notice, let alone care -- the itching was still terrible but the novelty of it had worn off in bleeding sores and it was the fever that was making me so sick. I couldn't do much more than groan and drink fluids and sleep.
So I wasn't really up to acting up.
But once the worst of it was over, the realization returned -- no Hallowe'en.
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I was dead inside.
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Well, odd as it may seem, even in the face of The Great Disappointment I could not stay entirely miserable.
Sure, tagging along with my mom as we drove my brothers to Gramma's house was probably a lousy idea; the drive back was indeed miserable. My older sister Julie stayed with us, rather than go to Gram's, which was certainly a very kind thing to do for me but I was just baffled that she'd choose to miss out.
My baby sisters were far too little for any of it.
Still, it wasn't all bad.
For one thing, I got to dress up, sort of. Mom let me slick my hair back, and use one of my blankets as a cape, and put in some good ol' vampire teeth. You know the kind...
Mine didn't glow in the dark but this picture looked better than the others.
Another questionable move that at first seemed like a good idea was helping hand out treats (with a vampiric laugh or two) to neighborhood kids. Not that I was contagious anymore (my mom wouldn't have let me near the door); it was the ten minutes it took to realize I was just missing out on the Big Night that burned me. By the dozenth knock and shout of "Trick or treeaat!" I was a broken man.
My misery had returned, my face was hot with tears, and it was only 6:30 pm. Would the torment go on forever?
"Alright, that's it," said Mom. "You're miserable. Hot bath time."
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The last time I visited that house, I couldn't help but notice how tiny the bathtub was. Back when I was seven and itchy and despairing, it seemed enormous, cold, clinical, deep and intimidating.
But at least I was finally letting it all out. I was crying, itching, soaking, and just plain sad.
"It's not fair," I'd repeat. "I love Hallowe'en and it's just not fair!"
But my mom was... well, my mom. She had (and still has) a talent for putting certain things in perspective (to young people especially) in a way that sneaks up to make sense. While I could still hear knocks and laughs and neighborhood fun beyond the bathroom window, I listened to her, and while I may not recall all of the wording precisely, I do recall much of it -- it was one of those moments in a kid's life -- and I will never forget her message.
"You know, Mike, of all my kids you do love the monsters and the spooky things the most, I don't know why. All of you kids certainly do but you most, somehow. So I know you think you're missing out. But listen to the kids outside --"
I did.
" -- and tell me you'd rather be outside with them."
I had to think for a moment but then realized the truth. "Actually, no," I admitted, "I don't really want to be with them, I just want to be at Gram's house putting on the show."
"Exactly. You're not sad because you're not out trick-or-treating, you're sad because you think you've missed out on the part you love most -- the making of it, the dressing up and putting on the show. Well, you got to dress up at least."
Reluctantly I had to agree.
"And you kind of got to put on a show of your own. You got to do a Dracula voice."
"Well, not really. I mean they all knew it was me talking scary and everything."
"Yes but it's still your doing, right? You were making it up. Even getting over being sick couldn't keep you from getting into some kind of fun for some length of time."
I soaked, and nodded, and kept listening.
"You know, you can have Hallowe'en everyday if you want. As far as I'm concerned that's what you do anyway, with your toys and models and books and everything. You can choose to feel this all the year round. And no temporary sickness can take it away. Think about that for a minute... then rinse up and dry off and get pjs on and let's watch some specials on TV or something."
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After I got into my pjs, Mom and Dad made us all some popcorn, and with the remainder of the Hallowe'en candy, we sat down to watch a made-for-TV movie called The Night That Panicked America, a docudrama about Orson Welles' infamous War of the Worlds radiocast of 1938. I had never heard anything about this historic event, and found myself truly enthralled with the idea, the technology, the pure gas of scaring a bazillion people at once with a microphone, a sound effects table, and a good spooky tale.
I watched the entire film completely entranced, and at some point I became aware that by learning about it I was, in effect, going behind the scenes to put on the show for Hallowe'en; that I was a part of the display, part of the magic of the scare and the fun, and I was in on the knowledge of how to do it.
This was a revelation. From here on out, I was going to be in on the haunting... even if I had to build it myself.
On the TV the movie was winding down and by the time the cast had realized it was just a radio show, I was more than curious.
"Dad? You were born when?"
"Nineteen and Twenty-Four."
"And this was on the radio in 1938?"
"Yessir," he nodded, knowing exactly where I was going with it.
"So did you hear it?"
Dad smiled, put down his crossword and lit another cigarette. "Well, it wasn't on the 31st like the movie says; it was actually done the night before Hallowe'en. I was almost 14 years old and spending the night at a pal's house a few blocks from where your grandparents and I lived in Indiana..."
As he told us his own experience of this until-tonight-never-even-heard-of epic event (a tale I may recount another time), I began to realize with great pride that I was somehow connected, however tenuously, to one of the best damned Hallowe'en tricks ever pulled, and even my Dad, the master jack o'lantern carver himself, had to give it to those radio guys for pulling it off.
These were heady and powerful revelations. I was a kid but thinking like a grown up, about what was now fully solidified in my mind and heart and soul as The Most Important Night of the Year.
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There was plenty more to that night. I don't remember the order of all events but there was some hot chocolate made, another smaller pumpkin carving, coloring in one of my monster coloring books, and I recall sitting next to Dad and watching much of the original silent Nosferatu (1922) on PBS... but after such a long night of emotional downs and ups, I was tired. Dead to the bone, getting-over-an-illness, rescuing-from-disappointment tired.
My sister allowed that I could go to sleep in her room that night before everyone else came home from Gram's.
This was just cool because... well, being a younger sibling getting to hang in your older siblings' space is a big deal. I am sure some of you know what I mean.
Soon, I lay in bed buzzing with exhaustion and sugar and Hallowe'en thoughts as a southern California Autumn wind picked up outside, coaxing the fingers of dry branches to scratch and tap the windows and occasionally dance on our shingles. I drifted blissfully in and out of sleep in the orange dimness of (I think it was) a Woody Woodpecker night light, sort of like this only with glitter in the plastic and the eyes and beak weren't painted:
... and listening to the wind and the quiet raucus of mid-'70s pop on that little baseball shaped radio on the bedpost beside my ear.
Fly, Robin Fly, If You Leave Me Now, Could This Be The Magic?
And as I lay there in a perfect mid-sleep state, I realized one more thing.
Rather than miss Hallowe'en, I had actually just experienced the first truly meaningful Hallowe'en of my young life. I had faced and beaten a sadness, had met a problem and dealt with it, yes, but more than that, I had learned much about myself, and even more about Hallowe'en... foremost that I was never, ever going to let another one get by me.
Ever.
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Strange, but as I neared real sleep I could hear children running, laughing, down the street. I figured it couldn't have been real, because it was late, super late for our kid-filled neighborhood and there had been no trick-or-treating going on for some time now... yet I heard them just the same -- the smack and dance of sneakers on sidewalks, the rustling of treat bags and pillow cases filled with kid gold, the flapping of capes and skirts and masks and the laughter, the giggling whispers vanishing on the wind.
Maybe it was all just that balmy wind (as I like to think, a sour-sweet Grinch Night wind). I can't really say. I just know Hallowe'en was still playing itself out, all around me.
Soon, I could hear a new ruckus but this one no mystery -- the hushed-but-too-loud-voices of my brothers as they returned home, in the living room with our mom and dad, sharing tales of scaring glory, of the best makeups from Aunt Kath and Aunt Janet and the best homemade costumes and the best store-bought masks and the funniest lines from the
Dr. Insano balcony show.
I couldn't help but listen with a smile. They seemed to have had a very fun time.
Sure, I could've felt jealous. But I realized they'd missed out on my amazing time at home.
And then I realized something else.
Soon, I was going to be the happy, healthy one having all the fun.
They were all going to come down with chicken pox in another week.**
DUMDUMSHREKPOX!
** -- and yes they did!
