What’s good for the goose...
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Updated: November 05, 2009 5:16 PM
OK, I admit it.
Halloween is my second most favourite day of the year. It’s far too early to talk about the best day of all – later my friends.
My birthday used to be the No. 2 best day – until I reached middle age a couple of decades back.
I get it from my mom – bless her soul – who used to dress me up as the little girl that she always wanted, but that’s between me and my shrink.
Year after year, I would be transformed into a Shirley Temple-like creature with my only solace being the pillowcase full of candy.
I would spread the goodies out on the kitchen table and sort into instant eatables, savers and the stuff I was willing to share with my siblings, parents and trade with my friends.
Eventually, I rebelled and told mom there was no way I was dressing up as a girl again. She was hurt; I felt bad, but I couldn’t take the heckling from my junior high school buddies any more.
Then I went through the fireworks, egg throwing and window-soaping phase until the old witchy-boo down the block chased me down and dragged me home by the ear.
I thought I was going to be in uber-trouble.
When she left, the front door closed and I turned to face my parents – they laughed so hard my face was crimson for a week.
That was the worst Halloween of my life until I visited my country cousins in Celesta a couple of years later.
I was a brash 15-year-old from the big city who thought he knew all there was to know about everything.
They were a little older, significantly wiser and had a mean streak the four of them hid below their seemingly serene and laid-back personalities.
Having arrived a few days before Halloween, we swapped stories about the tricks we had played on our neighbours under the cover of darkness.
I had to one-up them on every story, so I made up my stories, with each one becoming more extravagant until even I couldn’t believe them any more.
Of course, I didn’t tell them about my run-in with
witchy-boo.
My oldest cousin invited us young-uns to experience the exhilaration he and his buddies had achieved the past couple of years by knocking old man Smith’s outhouse over.
It was a done deal, pinkie shake included.
We were all in and planning for our devilish deed got serious. We even scoped out the best approach to our target on Halloween night.
Finally, the big night came and it was time to claim our badge of glory.
Up the dirt path we charged, running five abreast with me in the middle grinning from ear to ear.
We were within a few feet of the outhouse and I stretched my arms out so I could give it a good shove.
I was wondering why they stopped running when suddenly solid ground went out from under my feet….
Earlier in the day they made a deal with Mr. Smith who allowed them to move his outhouse back three or four feet on the promise they would move it back the next morning.
I’m still not talking to them.
Ken Alexander is editor of 100 Mile House Free Press.
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