Things That Go Bump in the Night

by Dean Kramer 
November, 2002


At Cripple Creek it's that spooky time of year when mists and fogs rise from damp valleys, wood smoke scents the chilly breeze and the long, bony fingers of dried corn stalks splay skyward in the fields. Many of my neighbors decorate their lawns with plywood tombstones and clothing assembled and stuffed to appear corpselike. We don't have trick-or-treaters in this rural area. Instead, there is a costume party for the children in the nearest town's fire hall.

Halloween at our house used to involve getting the dogs ready for their annual party. Yes, there was a Halloween party for dogs at a nearby kennel. All dogs attending were required to wear costumes, but costuming for humans was optional. That worked for me because I have a general anxiety when it comes to costumes, but my dog loves them. The dogs' costumes were judged and the winners received edible prizes. The dogs also played organized games such as ducking for hotdogs, flag racing for hotdogs, doing tricks for hotdogs— come to think of it, all the games involved hotdogs except for the hardboiled egg race. All the dogs had a great time and went home tired and happy except for the more competitive ones who went home with indigestion.

This year I'm going to a human Halloween party where costumes are mandatory and I'll be using my manual wheelchair. I could probably go on foot with a walking stick. But the idea of walking, carrying food, a beverage, and a cane while wearing a costume is enough to make me want to stay home. Since I really don't want to stay home, I'm taking the wheelchair. I'm going with my companion, Twink. We thought about dressing her as Cinderella and me in my wheelchair as the pumpkin coach that took her to the ball. But I was concerned that, buried deep inside my pumpkin shell, I'd miss out on food and conversation. When it comes to costumes and disability, I think, the simpler the better. Of course the simplest thing for me would be to go as a disabled person in a wheelchair. Because MS is so variable it's entirely possible that, at some point in the evening I might rise from my chair and dance. Consequently, the wheelchair feels like a costume even when it's not Halloween. But, despite my reluctance to dress in disguise, I finally decided to go as "Hell On Wheels." To that end I've decorated my chair with flames made of stick-on felt. I've attached a fork to the end of my collapsible walking stick (I plan to use it for spearing deviled eggs). I'll be dressed in basic black with horns for my head, sticky felt cloven hooves attached to my shoes, and red and black wheelchair gloves. I hope to make an uncomplicated costume statement (the chair will be more costumed than I) while retaining my ability to maneuver. To balance things, Twink is going as "Heaven On Earth." My discomfort when it comes to costumes predates my MS by many years, though, and has its origins in a childhood Halloween.

My father was a graphic artist in those days. He was particularly good at cartooning and he was fascinated with costumes, masks and disguises. So one Halloween when I and my sister were just old enough to go trick-or-treating alone together (she was four, I was seven), he decided to make costumes for us. He wouldn't tell us what we were to be and the night before Halloween the costumes had yet to appear. But when we woke up the next morning we found two highly decorated pillow cases. He'd taken felt-tipped markers in many wonderful colors and had made "The Owl and the Pussy Cat" from a poem by Edward Lear. Never at a loss for lessons in morality, father told me I was to be the owl. I was older and was expected to take seriously the care of my sister, Karyn, on this, our first unsupervised outing after dark. Karyn was to be the (cuter and more feminine) pussy cat (who had no responsibility whatsoever and had better listen if she knows what's good for her). Thus we were costumed. I had a hopeless sinking feeling common to children whose parents are clueless (which is all children). No one in our neighborhood, outside of our family, read Edward Lear. Even at age seven, I was aware of this. I envisioned a long night of having to explain what my costume was about. I'd wanted to be a hobo.

But that wasn't all. As dusk fell and we prepared to leave the house that night my father presented us with his final gift— a beautiful pea green boat reminiscent of the one in which the owl and the pussy cat went to sea! Yes, it was a cardboard canoe painted green. It was in two pieces, joined at the bow and stern with tape and staples. He placed it over us in the front yard. My sister and I clutched both our goodie bags and the canoe's sides and, with the owl in front and the pussycat in the rear, we shuffled off to collect our share of candy,

Problems surfaced immediately. The owl had way longer legs than the pussy cat. Besides, though neither the owl nor the pussy cat could see very well (father had based the eye holes on his own head) the owl had a better view and was entirely focused on getting her bag filled. The pussy cat was lollygagging and rubbernecking to see what other kids were wearing. The pussy cat had really wanted to be a princess or a ballerina. She didn't even know the poem she represented and she was still too young to have grasped the concept of filling her bag with candy. So we proceeded, my sister and I, stumbling along and bickering with increasing ardor until we reached the first house. The owl reached up and rang the bell. "Come in!" called a cheerful neighbor. But, of course, we couldn't come in. There was no way I could hold up my end of the canoe, hold my goodie bag, and open the door. So we stood there waiting. Eventually some other kids arrived. When the door was opened we followed them into the house. The more conventionally costumed were quickly identified and given their candy. Then, "What are you supposed to be?" our neighbor asked us.

"The owl and the pussy cat, from the poem." I replied dutifully.

"The what? I never heard of such a thing! Well, come in and lets have a look at you."

It was at that moment that disaster struck. While executing a turn to starboard we swept a lamp off an end table with our stern. While making a frantic turn to port to see what had crashed behind us, we knocked over two small children and the bowl of candy on the coffee table. There followed a period involving lots of distressed noise from adults, laughter from children, and thumpings of falling objects. As our canoe tossed and turned, twisting one way and another, vague shadowy shapes moved toward me and away, viewed through the thin fabric of my imprisoning pillow case. At last, someone managed to pull the costumes off us, allowing us to see clearly the devastation wrought by the beautiful pea green boat. It was impressive— at least to a child. "I don't know what you two are supposed to be, but your parents have some nerve! They're going to hear about this!" We were ushered quickly out the door with our pillow cases and the remnants of our battered canoe, our goodie bags still empty.

As the responsible former owl I then made an executive decision. I turned the decorated pillow cases inside out. In their new incarnation as goodie bags they were more capacious than the sacks we'd been carrying. We ditched the old bags and the no-longer-beautiful pea green boat in some bushes and, dressed in our regular clothes, we made our way from house to house with the other kids. Everyone felt sorry because our parents hadn't seen fit to costume us. "Poor little girls." they said, "Here, take a little extra!" Karyn and I made out quite well the rest of the night.