Ever face the unthinkable? I imagine it happens at least once in everyone’s life. For me, the unthinkable almost happened the October of my daughter’s first-grade year: I almost lost my Halloween spirit.
I deem this unthinkable because I have always loved Halloween. I don’t mean that I found it amusing or a great way to collect junk food; I mean that I LUUUUVVED it. The thrill continues unabated in spite of the gray hair and crow’s feet, making the reprise of a witch costume easier every year. The source of this affection remains unknown to me, but I see no need to ask questions. I should spend as much time on my child’s costume as my own, but I’m fortunate to have an ingratiating family.
So what almost killed a love so deep? It all began with a well-intentioned trip to the pumpkin patch.
October’s end was around the corner, and we’d yet to have any decent weather for said venture. I had a favorite local farm stand when it came to cider: Westmill Farm. Let the record show that Halloween is the only time I ever throw over a dry martini for apple cider; truer love has never been found. I had to hit Westmill’s for my cider, so I thought we might as well go there for our pumpkins and autumn entertainment.
For a fleeting moment I was overcome with intelligence, and elected to investigate the extent of their offerings. I called Westmill’s and talked with a lady who assured me they had hayrides. They had pumpkin picking. They didn’t just have a maze; they had FOUR mazes: a stone maze, a nautical rope maze, a corn labyrinth (excellent—a MAIZE maze), and a haystack maze. A bag of popcorn came with the price of your admission. Thinking I had just scored the proverbial Halloween coup, I could hear my batwing socks squeaking from my bureau. Then it happened: that sinking moment when one is exposed to the fine print and particulars.
The mazes, she added, were not open during the week; only weekends. This made it tough to wrangle up some Moms and No-Longer-Tots for an after-SCHOOL outing. The mazes and hayrides were not even open to bus groups during the week. (I didn’t have a bus handy, but I just had to know.) These things weren’t even open mid-week in the last week of October. At $8/head, with a peak season of only six weeks, forgive me if the marketing genius of this policy completely escaped me.
The best part was the warmth of the conversation. This Party-On-The-Other-End-Of-The-Line was at least three Krabbie Patties over the limit. She interrupted me incessantly, with a rudeness that would make a DMV agent consider an Insolence Refresher Course. My baser side wanted to say, “You know, where I come from, your pitiful farm would be considered Westmill Garden, OK? Maybe even Westmill Window Box.” (What can I say? Alliteration just jazzes me.) I took the high road on that point, but I did get in a zinger or two before all was said and done. The gods of fair play were smiling upon me; my morning coffee buzz had almost worn off, and my short fuse had me in fine sparring mode.
When I finally succeeded in cutting off her interruptions, I blurted out my final question: “IF I only come with three or four kids, what do you have that they can do?”
“NOTHING,” she said.
“Nothing?” I gasped.
“NOTHING,” she droned.
“They can’t pick pumpkins?”
“NO; that’s part of the hayride. Well, they can pick pumpkins off the lot here at the store,” she graciously offered. Is that like buying clothes off the rack, I wondered? I do that all the time. Sorry, I’m not buying your old generic pumpkins when you refuse to let me pick the Prada ones.
It spiraled down the slippery slope from there. Suffice it to say, we picked our pumpkins elsewhere in first grade. We went back to Arwell Farm, home of happy Halloweens past and a simpler way of life. The hayride was bumpy, but my painkiller saw me through. We picked pumpkins from the field and off the rack. We even hit the wooden sets for picture-taking. How could I have forgotten that little touch? My favorite will always be the Bridezilla with cleavage for which many a woman would kill. I’m still trying to figure that one out—though it looks great on me.
It wasn’t a crisp, bright autumn Friday; it was rainy, cold, and hip-deep with mud. You could feel the breath of November as the sun laid itself to rest. Still, my spirits weren’t dampened; they were born anew, lit from within like my daughter’s carved creations. There’s definitely satisfaction in surviving sabotage.
As for the “lady” at Westmill’s? Rumor has it she’s left a trail of broken Halloween spirits as wide as Smith County itself. But mine will never be counted among them. I may have briefly stumbled once, but in the end, nobody hijacks my Halloween.
Copyright 2009 Denise Aisling
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Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader when she’s not freelance writing, singing with her church choir, or volunteering at her daughter’s grammar school. For Ms. Aisling, writing came by way of evolution: a creative balance to analytical trading, and an emotional outlet for the challenging times in life. She also found it was a great way to make herself laugh.
