Halloween. The one night a year where people actually use my front door. The cobwebs on my porch are considered decoration. I can turn on my orange and black lights even though the Giants aren’t in the World Series.
We’ve had a tradition called Trick or Drink. My brother-in-law brings his wife and son over, and a few friends. When the kids were younger, the guys would take the kids trick-or-treating while the women stayed home, drank wine, and handed out candy. I make potato soup, someone brings a salad, and a pizza for the kids.
Five years ago, I was watching a young Madison Bumgarner pitch his very first World Series game. I wore my Tim Lincecum costume. Last year it rained on the Giants’ victory parade, so I wore a rain poncho over my Tim Lincecum costume.
I can’t find my wig, so this year I’m going as Princess Leia. The other go-to costume I have in my closet that is relevant every year.
My youngest son has been obsessed with Star Wars music. We listen to the soundtracks on the way to middle school each morning. There’s something to starting each day off feeling like you’re ready to take on a galaxy far, far away.
The kids have outgrown their Jawa costumes. They are old enough to trick-or-treat by themselves. Maybe too old, but it’s better than egging people or smashing pumpkins or whatever teenagers do instead of sheepishly knocking on people’s doors with a pillow case and at least some attempt at a costume. They usually come later in the evening. Some of them I’ve known since they were in elementary school with my own kids. Most of them are polite, clinging to the last rituals of childhood.
I guess I’d better dig out the Halloween bowl, fill it with candy and put my hair up in buns. I’ll make the soup, pour the wine, and be thankful I don’t live in the neighborhood where they block off the streets and take out a loan to pay for the candy.