I’m not quite sure at what point it became socially acceptable for kids to run amuck and demand food from complete strangers, but research tells me my Irish-Catholic ancestors may be to blame. Though we were not Catholic, the observance of Halloween always posed a spiritual dilemma for Phil and Syl. You see, Halloween is Satan’s holiday. This was a problem because Phil and Syl swore their (and our) allegiance to Jesus Christ, who is, as most of you know, the natural sworn enemy of Satan. But Halloween also presented the one annual opportunity for us kids to beg at our neighbors’ doorsteps and come home with bags full of candy—FREE candy, I might add. If there’s anything Phil and Syl love almost as much as Jesus, it is all things FREE. So you can understand their dilemma.
Lucky for us, Phil found a theological loophole in the traditional “a vote for Halloween is a vote for Satan” Baptist mantra. Phil instructed us that we could escape eternal damnation if we informed our pagan neighbors that we were not dressed up because it was Halloween, but rather, because it was All-Hallows-Eve. This was the night before All Saints Day—the day when Christians honor the saints and martyrs who doubtless gave their lives so future generations of greedy, overindulged children could stuff their cheeks with candy and lapse into sugar-induced comas.
With our behinds firmly nestled in the notched fencepost separating heaven and hell, the Boyd children set out to make each All Hallows Eve memorable. This was no small feat as Phil and Syl’s shared disdain for store-bought clothing extended to store-bought costumes. In Phil and Syl’s opinion, store-bought costumes constituted the most frivolous (read: sinful) of all clothing purchases as such items were—GASP!—only good for one use. As with most things (school lunches, projects, homework, etc.), we were left to fashion our own costumes. Every year, I’d stare at my closet, ransack my and my siblings’ dressers, and thumb through Phil’s wardrobe in an effort to be inspired.
On one particular All Hallows Eve, I decided to be a ghost. I knew this idea would not win me the envy and admiration of my friends, but I was desperate—desperate for candy. Proud that I had a plan in place, I approached Syl to request a sheet for my costume. Syl initially grabbed a clean, crisp, white sheet, but once Syl learned that I intended to cut holes in the sheet for my eyes, nose, and mouth, she replaced it with an ugly, paint-stained, yellow sheet with brown print that vaguely resembled flowers that had clearly withered and died at some point in the distant past. I looked down at the sheet and back up at Syl. “Seriously?” I signed. “I’m supposed to be a ghost,” I continued. “And everybody knows ghosts are supposed to be white,” I finished. Syl looked down at me and frowned. “Well,” she replied, it will be dark outside and no one will be able to see what color the sheet is anyways.” With that, Syl hurried off, leaving me holding my urine-colored-possibly-stained sheet at arm’s length between my thumb and index finger.
Left with no viable costume alternative, and unwilling to sign up for a candy-less existence, I trudged upstairs, located a pair of scissors, and grumbled as I cut holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth. I then slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and my favorite sweatsuit, threw the puke sheet over my head and adjusted the holes to cover my glasses, nose and mouth. One might surmise that a simple sheet (if we’re calling it that) would constitute a fairly low-maintenance costume. I thought so, too. However, when my siblings and I stepped outside into the cold October night, I ran into my first logistical difficulty. As I breathed in the frosty air and exhaled, my behemoth-sized glasses immediately fogged up. I tried to pull the sheet away from my face, hoping this would clear my glasses up, but this was an exercise in futility. I stumbled down the street after my siblings, tugging at my sheet, trying to get a clear line of vision. After taking a tumble down a set of stairs, I jerked my glasses out from under the urine sheet and jammed them on my face, over the sheet, thereby cementing my shame. After downing a few Snickers and Butterfinger bars, however, I was high on sugar, over my humiliation, and fully focused on the business of candy acquisition.
When one lives in a “transitional” neighborhood, one has to put up with neighbors who give “filler” (read: undetectable to the human eye) candy or other similarly undesirable household items such as pennies or apples. Ordinarily, I’d be chastised for throwing away a perfectly good apple, but on All Hallows Eve, we were under strict instructions to discard anything that was unwrapped as Syl believed all of these items contained hidden razor blades. I never took issue with Syl’s rule—until I walked up to a house not far from my own and, to my extreme surprise and delight, the homeowner was giving away donuts! WHOLE DONUTS! Not just crappy glazed donuts, mind you, but powdered, jelly, chocolate covered, and crème filled donuts.
In light of the fact that I’d be just as likely to spot a donut in my house as I would a unicorn or a leprechaun, I hungrily reached for a powdered jelly donut. As I did, I momentarily froze as Syl’s disapproving face suddenly appeared. I rationalized my choice, reminding myself that donuts had never made the official “don’t-eat-this-or-you-will-surely-die” list. Still, I worried that Syl would find out that I had tasted of the forbidden fruit, so I hastily shoved the donut in the direction of my mouth to destroy the evidence. Herein I encountered my second logistical difficulty of the night. I had cut a hole in the sheet large enough to allow me to breathe, and to eat small pieces of candy, but said opening was woefully undersized when it came to shoving in a confection as big as my hand.
Undeterred, I attempted to roll, fold, cram, or otherwise wedge the donut into my mouth. As I did so, the jelly that was inside of the donut seeped through my fingers, stuck to the sides of my mouth, dribbled down my chin, and rolled onto my shoes. Having already committed to this course of action, I naturally felt compelled to see it through. I poked the remaining dough and jelly droplets through the hole and swallowed, relieved to have completed my mission. At this point, I was sweating, disoriented and woozy, but simultaneously glad that Syl had seen fit to deny me that pristine white sheet after all. Unfortunately, my gluttony left me with a sticky sheet that adhered to my mouth and hands not unlike a piece of medical tape or liquid cement, and every time I tried to wipe my hands or face, I smeared the jelly even more. When all was said and done, I had jelly on my glasses, in my hair, on my sweatsuit, and everywhere in between.
I quickly retreated home, where I immediately deposited my “costume” in the washing machine, grabbed my sack of candy, and made a beeline for the nearest restroom. After thoroughly scrubbing my face and hands, I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door. Safe inside my sanctuary, I closed my eyes, thanked Jesus for my free candy, apologized for not telling any of my neighbors about All Hallows Eve, and requested not to be sent to hell for my oversight.
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We're told this photograph was taken at a "fashion show." At first blush, you might not be able to guess which poor soul in this photograph is our victim this week. Amy G., on the right, prided herself on being known as the Canadian version of "Six" (that's her pal Blossom on the left). A little more about Amy G.:
