Halloween Nostalgia

I remember a different kind of Halloween.

Before booty shorts, booze, and blacked out nights.

One of hand made costumes, tears shed over carving pumpkins, and plastic jack-o-lantern candy catchers.

I remember a Halloween of Trick-or Treating for hours on end, of skirts falling down to ankles in bursts of excited sprinting*, and parades around the outdoor auditorium.

Of angels and butterflies, flapper girls and cavemen, black cats and gypsies.

*****

My dedicated mother planned our costumes months in advance and worked on them daily.

Sewing, gluing, and painting.

Littering our house with sequins, fringe, and glitter.

She helped dress us in the morning before school.

Undressed us in crowded bathrooms during the afternoon.

And redressed us in the evening.

All to be sure we didn't rip, tear, or ruin her beautiful handiwork.

This wonderful woman poured herself irish coffees, force fed us through giddy chatter, and snapped a million photos before hitting the streets.

*****

I remember the year we retired our pumpkins and paraded around with pillow cases.

The year 7-year-old Lo-baby marched up the street in her clown costume innocently screaming "Hail Hilter" as the adults giggled in embarrassment.

The year of the anthrax scare when we came home with a years worth of candy due to the lack of parents shuffling their children around the neighborhood.

*****

These are the Halloweens I remember.

The Halloweens before the age of alcohol consumption and recreational drug use.

Before one tequila shot too many, walking 16 blocks opposite home in drunken confusion, and rescuing hysterical sisters from overcrowded parties.

Before skin baring costumes, hangovers, and nights only wished to be remembered.

*****

I carved a pumpkin Wednesday night with my Mommy.

*I didn't cry or accuse her of murdering my orange friend.

I reminded my dad to purchase candy for the trick-or-treaters.

And today I woke up, made some coffee, opened my journal, and smiled at my Halloween owl.

(A gift from my daddy a few years back that serves as a reminder of the Halloweens I prefer to remember.)

Happy Halloween :)

*My skirt really did fall to my ankles one year as I ran down the street after my brothers.

*And I really did cry and scream at my dad for killing my pumpkin. He never carved one again.

Innocence.

I spend my monday mornings with a little guy named Titus Matthew. He is absolutely worth waking up at 7am and driving 45 minutes out to Santee. At 2 1/2 his personality is unavoidable and his energy contagious. He is the light of my week, every week.

I fear the day I become the babysitter his mom recalls he once loved. A college student he ran down the street into the arms of and exclaimed all week, "Titus want build trains with Taydor!" A girl who built block towers and lego gas stations and forts out of couch cushions. Who read him bed times stories and hugged and kissed and held him.

In a few years he wont remember me or the happiness of such simplicity - chasing his baby sister around the back yard, recognizing objects and naming them for the very first time, feeling unconditionally loved by everyone who crosses his path.

Soon he will experience the world as we do. A world of emotion exploding with every step. Of ridiculous happiness and unforgettable pain.

As I watched my favorite little friend run around giggling today I made a silent wish that his innocence would last as long as possible.

Because today:

The pain he feels is merely physical - a split chin and a slight spanking.

His dad remains his super hero and his mother his best friend.

He speaks without hesitation, unafraid of judgement and ridicule.

He knows not the disappointment of failing a test or losing in the playoffs.

He has yet to be teased and bullied on the playground by children his own age or betrayed by his best friend.

The biggest decision he is asked to make is whether he wants macaroni and cheese or chicken for lunch.

He has not been showered with religious teachings and asked to form political opinions.

He knows love but not a broken heart and he fears not rejection nor inadequacy.

And because of this Titus' pristine heart beats boldly without tears or bruises inside his tiny chest. He smiles genuinely with happiness in his eyes and when he falls down he gets right back up because no one ever told him he couldn't make it.

I have no doubt that Titus will grow up to be intelligent, respectable and loving. He already possess a caring nature and a desire to learn.

But I hope the day he wakes up to a world of lies and deceit, frustration and turmoil, that he bears the strength and confidence to soldier on because his undeniable and inspiring innocence will last but a few years longer.