The following personal essay was written by Deborah A. Sabin, a student in the East Line Books personal essay class. Enjoy!
ALL HALLOW'S EVE
by Deborah A. Sabin
He believed it was his own personal holiday. After all, his last name was Hallow. He could wear goofy costumes; there was cool music and tasty food. Not to mention candy.
As the holiday approached, he pushed me to schedule our costume party. Set for the Saturday night closest to or on Halloween, our annual celebration had become increasingly popular among our friends and neighbors. When it fell on Halloween, even the neighborhood kids got into it, never knowing who or what would open our front door at the sound of the chimes.
Next, he researched costume choices. When we were first married, we tried, unsuccessfully, to coordinate. Our best was when I was an angel and he was the ghost of Thurman Munson; we wore matching angel wings and halos – his halo perched at a jaunty angle above his favorite Yankees’ cap and his wings trimmed with blue. He liked to make his costume from materials at hand: old women’s clothes, Yankee jerseys, and an old black suit when he was John Belushi as Jake Blues.
Our menu was the same every year. We had pigs in the blanket because that was his favorite hors d’ouvere. Deviled eggs was an obvious choice, although he was banned from touching them after the year he tried to turn them into bloodshot eyes using black olives ands thin strips of roasted red pepper. Pumpkin cookies, laden with nuts and raisins and chips, both chocolate and butterscotch, were made in a double batch because he ate at least two dozen while we prepared for the party.
The night before the party frequently featured an argument. I was rushing around trying to cook, clean and decorate, all at the same time. He was ensconced in the family room, music blaring, oblivious to all my pleas for help. In the days of record albums and cassette tapes, he recorded the party soundtrack from his vast collection of albums. “Thriller”, of course, was the featured song, but he added “Love Potion No. 9”, “Little Red Riding Hood”, “Monster Mash” and his favorite,” Werewolves of London”. Over and over they would play as he cued the tape, recorded, erased, until I was howling along with Warren Zevon. I stomped into the family room ready to let him have it but stopped short. There he was, the earphones framing his face, singing along to the music on the stereo, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by Kleenex. He was fashioning little ghosts, their heads made from a piece of balled up tissue rubber-banded in the middle of the second sheet. Black Sharpies made ghoulish grins and vacant eyes on their tiny faces. He tied a short piece of thread around their necks and Scotch taped them to the blades of the ceiling fan. He was in his glory.
There are still scraps of Scotch tape on the ceiling fan blades. His record collection still crams the shelves but I don’t know what happened to the Halloween music cassettes. Dead for 21 years, his spirit frequently moves through our house. But it is his ghost I can almost see on Halloween. I hear his giggle and then a high-pitched howl: “Ow, whooooo, werewolves of London….” Where else would he be on his holiday?
#
