Dad's on the Couch Archive

Halloween in Peoria.

(A disclaimer: this piece feels dated for just that reason, it’s old... hence the reference to Drew Barrymore. I believe the point the rest of the piece makes, however, is still salient. –E)

It was an afternoon much like any other as I lay quietly on the couch, minding my own business I might add, when I was paid a visit by the sandman and abruptly found myself back in my favorite little corner of dreamland. So there I was, snuggled into what was suddenly a plush leather chaise with a few fingers of Johnny Black, and, as luck would have it, Drew Barrymore was there as well, obviously eager for a spirited discussion of current events. Just then of course I felt a strangely familiar tap on my forehead. Fighting it proved to be fruitless, and seconds later I found myself back on my own living room couch that in no way resembled a luxurious leather chaise, staring at a four-foot goblin that in no way resembled Drew Barrymore.

In a rather frantic tone the goblin berated me for my ability to sleep at any given moment, and implied that we would miss all the fun. My obvious inattention to Halloween’s magic wasn’t lost on anyone else in the house either, and moments later, having finally been drawn into the whirlwind of excitement that filled the air, I unleashed a little Halloween surprise I had been working on, and shortly was trick-or-treating with a flock of little neighborhood demons.

This little surprise, half the reward for which would simply be the looks of puzzlement it would bring, sprung from the fact that as a youngster I had thoroughly enjoyed Halloween. The thought of walking darkened streets in a freshly homemade costume, with a chill in the air and a UNICEF box in hand, always invokes a host of pleasant childhood memories for me… a brief misunderstanding involving the police and several squad cars in 1978 notwithstanding. As most of our costumes were homemade, it seemed that there was an infinite variety of outfits, each expressing the individual nature of its wearer. Even though there may have been a half dozen Supermen on one block, they were a half dozen entirely different Supermen. My Superman costume, for instance, was notable not for it’s standard Superman blue body or mom-embroidered ‘S’, but rather the bright red mom-surrendered go-go boots circa 1967 that lent a snappy chic to the whole affair. If not in formal costume, then my cohorts and I were painting each other with flour paste and food coloring designed to achieve the most gruesome effects possible. Either way there was a sense of adventure and anticipation that was due in large part to the effort we spent being different. I suppose the scads of candy may have had something to do with the fun, but you get the point.

Last year, however, our holiday gathering of trick or treaters was a rather drearily unimaginative group comprised of a Digimon, two fairy princesses, a shapeless and therefore unrecognizable variety of Pokemon, a Spiderman, and a pair of entirely unconvincing witches. So, as I obviously find the modern era of flame-retardant, choke-cord-free, high-visibility, homogenous costumes to be, in a word, dull, I set out this year to break the bonds of conformity, and have a little fun with our three year old while I was at it.

To this end, an acquaintance of mine with a similar taste for all things kitsch had recently returned from a simply smashing yard sale with a tiny pair of authentic Bavarian (at least the label promised as much) lederhosen, complete with a little green feathered Alpine hiker’s hat of the sort that was fashionable with cigar-smoking, pinkie ring-wearing bookies in the seventies. Once I had added little brown boots, a white pinpoint oxford shirt and green knee socks to the ensemble, I had, if I do say so myself, a unique and particularly precious Alpine/Yodeling/Sound-of-Music-Boy costume for our golden haired youngest. The next challenge was simply a matter of keeping the whole thing hush-hush until the last moment, as non-conformity doesn’t play any better in our house than, as they say, in Peoria.

The big day finally arrived, the candy was readied, Drew and I were interrupted, and in a moment I whisked the boy away to the basement where he was transformed into the cutest darn extra to ever escape the Nazis while singing Edelweiss. His grand entrance, I’m proud to say, caused just the stir for which I had hoped. Although no ladies fainted with the vapors, nor were the hounds set to howling, my Lovely Bride was moved to that squinty sort of expression of disbelief that I so enjoy. "What’s that?" came the first question, exquisite in its simplicity.
"Why it’s Helmut, All Rockland County Yodeling Champion of 2000, of course!" "Go on boy, give her a yelp." I said as I gave the tot a nudge.

There was only a giggle accompanied by a wipe of the nose forthcoming, but it was enough ensure our escape to the front yard where a brace of Pokemon awaited us, goodie bags in hand.
Sure enough, he was the hit of the afternoon, causing not panic in the streets as my Lovely Bride had glumly predicted, but oohs and ahs almost embarrassing in their sincerity. Each of the accompanying parents was moved to stop and catch the lad on film, as was each of the trick-or-treated. As the afternoon wore on the entire affair actually ended up taking on a life of it’s own; at one stop he managed to come away with a miniature accordion which matched his getup perfectly, and before I knew it someone had been kind enough to apply a greasepaint mustache.

In retrospect, I realize he was just a monkey away from being an organ grinder, but the dangerously mixed genres didn’t concern me in the least, as I had proven myself the guardian of purist Halloween values that I always knew I could be. Now, with my head swimming with holiday plans and confidence soaring, I’m sure I can keep all those feathers for the Thanksgiving hot air balloon hidden for a few more weeks.