“My mates and I poured out the door and scattered into the blustery autumn wind like a flock of well-dressed scarecrows . . .”
Halloween was due on a Thursday in 1946.
As school was dismissing on Wednesday, Miss Greenlee made another one of her famous announcements – only this time with an added caveat that would change life as I knew it before nightfall the next day.
The innocuous sounding part was, “Anyone who would like to wear a costume to school tomorrow for Halloween may do so.”
That in itself was enough to conjure a roomful of mixed emotions. But the caveat was the kicker.
“You will please design your costume by yourself.”
And that was the rule. No cheating.
Miss Greenlee wasn’t forbidding us to scroll forward in time a few decades and buy costumes from store aisles that didn’t exist yet. She was just saying we couldn’t let anyone else make creative decisions for us. And we only had a few hours to decide.
We’d already spent the week swapping ghost stories on the playground, thinking we’d have some orange cookies and punch on Thursday and call it a Halloween. So you can imagine, on such short notice, how many straw-hatted farmers toting buckets and rakes and sheet-clad ghosts and high-heeled, beaded ladies stumbling over their mothers’ dresses were likely to show up for the “Extras” cast on Halloween morning.
But refreshingly, most of Miss Greenlee’s students managed to notch up their level of costume design to suit the “Supporting Role” category . . .
Villains and War Paint
Bobby Blackstone and Teddy MacDougal played villains, of course. They’d rubbed coal all over their faces and wrapped themselves together in a big. black funeral parlor awning.
They wouldn’t have said how they came by the awning, so nobody bothered to ask. But they were more than prompt to accommodate anyone cheeky enough to sneak a peek at them, baring their teeth and hissing in campy, Bela Lugosi voices, “We are the vicious two-headed spider and we’ve come to eat you up!”
Me, I just wanted to keep it simple. And I sure wasn’t wearing a dress . . .
I had my fantasies about turning into a butterfly, but that wasn’t happening yet. Not according to the mirror, at least. My stubborn habit of dressing like a “tomboy” (as the gossips put it) wouldn’t permit such a delicate appearance in public on my part, anyway.
But the usual braids and overalls didn’t qualify as costume in Havenwood. So I got the idea I might use the occasion to honor my Native American ancestors, tied a strip of buckskin around my forehead, two mockingbird feathers in back and said I was an Indian. At least it was easy.
And as it turned out, I was also glad I’d declined Mama’s offer to borrow her lipstick for war paint. Katy Winthrop’s cheek rouge was enough for one day . . .
When I guessed correctly that Katy’s cheeks were meant to look like big red cherries to compliment the plastic fruit piled on her head, you’d think she’d just won the lottery, the way she squealed and carried on to thank me. But I must say, for a shy, plain girl who sat in the back of the classroom and kept to herself, I had to admire her daring on that headdress.
In my opinion, Katy was clearly the star of the show. And since Miss Greenlee’s other rule was that nobody could make fun of your costume, I figured she’d be safe in that respect.
Righteous Miss Hickey, however, was so offended by the blasphemy of such a thing as anyone ever wearing a costume (let alone to school) that when Mister Attabee gave us permission to stage a costume parade over lunch time, you could practically see locomotive smoke shooting from Hickey’s ears.
As we single-filed, smiling and waving in our disguises, past the open doors of the cafeteria and classrooms along the hall, older students whistled and cheered and teachers waved back and applauded.
Some played like they were afraid; others looked duly impressed, especially with Blackstone and MacDougal’s two-headed whatever-it-was. Even the weird science teacher, Mister Salamander, raised his eyeballs off the jar of brains on his desk long enough to refocus on mad-cow Clayton and the Siamese spider twins.
But all Miss Hickey could do was sputter and fume and claw at her breast, like she was being murdered by the very brazenness of it all. And I’m sorry, but that was downright entertaining . . .
All told looking back, it was a day to remember . . .
And when the final bell rang to end it, my mates and I poured out the door and scattered into the blustery autumn wind like a flock of well-dressed scarecrows, clutching our spooky artwork to share with home and family.
~
Excerpts from HAVENWOOD TALES Beginnings
by D.J. Houston
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MORE HALLOWEEN MEMORIES at “Halloween Art – School Nostalgia“
Copyright©2007, 2013 D.J. Houston. All Rights Reserved.
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Victory for America – Home and War
Posted in America, Life Lessons, Family, School, tagged 1940s, American Family Life, Childhood Memories, Freedom, Historical Fiction Books, Native American Stories, Secrets, Social Commentary, World War 2 Veterans on October 13, 2010| 8 Comments »
A peek at the novel HAVENWOOD TALES Beginnings by Author, D.J. Houston
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Family Secrets . . .
I was only just getting to know my father then. Or at least what he’d become.
He’d been away to war so long, I’d even begun to wonder if I’d only imagined the times when the uniformed man in the picture frame on Mama’s dressing table lingered next to my crib to play with me by the light of a tiny nursery lamp, tickling my toes and fingers until we laughed out loud at each other.
As the years blended one to the next, the promise of his constant presence in my life dwindled to little more than a mist of wishful thinking, if I thought of him at all.
Envelopes with foreign stamps and the feelings that broke in Mama’s voice when she read passages from his letters to Timmy and me helped keep Daddy alive for us. The scene I caught of Timmy in front of the chiffarobe, sniffling and blowing his nose on his sleeve while he tried on Daddy’s hats, made its mark, too.
But our father was home now, home to all he’d fought for. And I was letting the strength of his quiet nature spread around me like calm on a morning pond.
He reminded me of a sycamore tree with his tall, lean build and sturdy limbs. His skin was white when he rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands in the wintertime. And his hair was as shiny black as a raven’s wing, only curly . . .
He had a sort of handsome face, I thought, with a strong jaw and a high forehead like Timmy’s. His eyes were the hazel, Irish eyes my own eyes echoed. But I was just beginning to see him as something more than a stranger who’d been smart enough to marry my mother. And she said the war left him with troublesome things on his mind.
I figured he wasn’t ready for me to tell him about Mister Walling.
As for Mama, she must have been quite a catch for anyone.
She was a pretty, plump brunette with light bronze skin and dark violet eyes, who liked to wear aprons with big pockets and her shoes as seldom as possible — a rare free spirit, inclined to practice the time-honored values of her Native American mother over those of her English father.
And while I knew she would hear with her heart whatever I had to say without belittling my reality, some innate, protective instinct prevented me from giving her reason to have to mention Mister Walling, or suffer undue concerns about my comings and goings.
WW II Victory, Freedom and Apple pie. . .
My sweet, brave mother had found balance in her life and I didn’t want to upset it.
She was grateful to be home in her own big kitchen, cooking and baking . . . with all the sugar and spices and herbs she needed or wanted — away from the hard times she’d endured at the Sand & Gravel plant after Daddy went to war and the money ran low, when rationing of everything from milk to nylon stockings was in full swing and we could no longer survive on barter from our Victory Garden yield alone.
But those times were behind us now. . .
Timmy and the boys at school didn’t have to collect used paper and metal and rubber for the war production scrap piles anymore. And I didn’t have to stay with that overbearing woman who smelled like pork cracklings and made me call her “Aunt Millie,” while Mama worked long hours at the plant with too many ladies who wished their men were home.
And freedom reigned!
FATHER’S DAY TRIBUTE: C L I C K H E R E
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Excerpts from the novel HAVENWOOD TALES Beginnings
D. J. Houston, Author
Copyright©2006, 2013 D.J. Houston. All Rights Reserved.
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