Happy Halloween to all y'all back on the other side of the world. Here in Bali, of course, we have arrived a day early, or perhaps you are a day late. It matters not, really, because here in Bali Halloween is not celebrated, not because they have anything against it but because they don't really understand what it is.
"This is the day," my friend Adi once said, "when people dress up like ghosts and monsters, right?"
"Right."
"Why?"
Why? Why? Well just because, that's why. Because it's Halloween.
I don't actually have many very distinct memories of Halloween from my childhood. I cannot remember any of my costumes, for instance. I do remember being told by my mother that on our first Halloween, she made ghost costumes for me and my brother and that it was raining and chilly outside so she made us wear coats over the ghost costumes. It was a decision we were not happy about, but I guess that ultimately wearing a coat was preferable to rebelling and getting no candy.
I do remember too that in those days one did not always receive candy, especially in our neighborhood. One would get his share of apples, nuts, caramel apples, popcorn balls--things which, in the present day, one's parents will separate from the mix and throw in the garbage, just to be on the safe side. I remember that candy bars back then were as big as your hand, not these finger-sized things that kids receive nowadays, albeit they were generally either Butterfingers or Baby Ruths.
The one Halloween that I do recall fairly distinctly is the one on which I attended my first dance. I was in the eighth grade and at that age when the thought of interacting with, or actually touching a girl had suddenly and quite mysteriously become not only less than repulsive but curiously and profoundly compelling--something to be desired!, of all things.
The dance was held in the basement of Julie Meier's house, replete with orange and black streamers, glowering pumpkins, half-gallon bottles of soda pop, party cups, and parents who regularly peered down the basement stairway. I remember dancing with Carole Halverson and with Julie Perella--although our mutual stiff-legged shifting from side to side was more akin to the movement required in moving a heavy chest of drawers than to dancing, per se. And yet, here I was actually touching a girl, and not running straightaway to wash my hands. I mean, touching her on purpose! And yes, God save me, liking it! In this being that had always been there, somewhere in the background, superfluous yet unavoidable, I had discovered an alien lifeform, soft, supple, whispery, formidable, both fascinating and terrifying--and it smelled good too!
As happens at that age--or did in my time, anyway--girls tended to be more mature, more sophisticated in this overall mystery than boys. It was the host, Julie Meier, who next suggested 'a kissing game'. Well, she didn't suggest it. She simply declared it.
This was too much. I mean it is one thing to touch a girl, but to touch her with one's lips? Oh. No. Way.
Oh. Yes. Way, Julie commanded.
Ah but no worries. Ted Huckins, universally considered the most worldly of we boys, came up with a sly plan. The girls, according to the game rules, were to sit together on a long bench with their eyes closed and their backs turned to the boys. Each boy would then creep up to the girl he found most desirable and plant a kiss on the side of her neck. The girl would then guess who had kissed her.
Dastardly indeed. One might have suspected such things from girls to begin with.
But what we would do, according to Ted's instructions, would be to wet only two of our own fingers with the tongue and then press these fingers to the girl's neck. In this way, we would not only retain the purity of our virgin lips, but would at the same time avoid the wrath that was sure to be Julie's response should we fail to play the game.
I don't remember why now, but for some reason the game fell apart before it ever began. Perhaps some of the girls felt as well that this was going too far? Or did Julie's parents just then make another appearance on the stairway? I just remember feeling relieved. Sure, I was ready to grow up--but only step by careful step.
How young we were! How innocent! All of us like drops of sweet dew teetering on blades of new grass. How old it makes me feel now, how weary in this worn and withered world. "The wine of youth," wrote Carl Jung, "does not always clear with advancing years; sometimes it grows turbid."
Sometimes, yes. But we are always free to remember those first thrilling sips.
"This is the day," my friend Adi once said, "when people dress up like ghosts and monsters, right?"
"Right."
"Why?"
Why? Why? Well just because, that's why. Because it's Halloween.
I don't actually have many very distinct memories of Halloween from my childhood. I cannot remember any of my costumes, for instance. I do remember being told by my mother that on our first Halloween, she made ghost costumes for me and my brother and that it was raining and chilly outside so she made us wear coats over the ghost costumes. It was a decision we were not happy about, but I guess that ultimately wearing a coat was preferable to rebelling and getting no candy.
I do remember too that in those days one did not always receive candy, especially in our neighborhood. One would get his share of apples, nuts, caramel apples, popcorn balls--things which, in the present day, one's parents will separate from the mix and throw in the garbage, just to be on the safe side. I remember that candy bars back then were as big as your hand, not these finger-sized things that kids receive nowadays, albeit they were generally either Butterfingers or Baby Ruths.
The one Halloween that I do recall fairly distinctly is the one on which I attended my first dance. I was in the eighth grade and at that age when the thought of interacting with, or actually touching a girl had suddenly and quite mysteriously become not only less than repulsive but curiously and profoundly compelling--something to be desired!, of all things.
The dance was held in the basement of Julie Meier's house, replete with orange and black streamers, glowering pumpkins, half-gallon bottles of soda pop, party cups, and parents who regularly peered down the basement stairway. I remember dancing with Carole Halverson and with Julie Perella--although our mutual stiff-legged shifting from side to side was more akin to the movement required in moving a heavy chest of drawers than to dancing, per se. And yet, here I was actually touching a girl, and not running straightaway to wash my hands. I mean, touching her on purpose! And yes, God save me, liking it! In this being that had always been there, somewhere in the background, superfluous yet unavoidable, I had discovered an alien lifeform, soft, supple, whispery, formidable, both fascinating and terrifying--and it smelled good too!
As happens at that age--or did in my time, anyway--girls tended to be more mature, more sophisticated in this overall mystery than boys. It was the host, Julie Meier, who next suggested 'a kissing game'. Well, she didn't suggest it. She simply declared it.
This was too much. I mean it is one thing to touch a girl, but to touch her with one's lips? Oh. No. Way.
Oh. Yes. Way, Julie commanded.
Ah but no worries. Ted Huckins, universally considered the most worldly of we boys, came up with a sly plan. The girls, according to the game rules, were to sit together on a long bench with their eyes closed and their backs turned to the boys. Each boy would then creep up to the girl he found most desirable and plant a kiss on the side of her neck. The girl would then guess who had kissed her.
Dastardly indeed. One might have suspected such things from girls to begin with.
But what we would do, according to Ted's instructions, would be to wet only two of our own fingers with the tongue and then press these fingers to the girl's neck. In this way, we would not only retain the purity of our virgin lips, but would at the same time avoid the wrath that was sure to be Julie's response should we fail to play the game.
I don't remember why now, but for some reason the game fell apart before it ever began. Perhaps some of the girls felt as well that this was going too far? Or did Julie's parents just then make another appearance on the stairway? I just remember feeling relieved. Sure, I was ready to grow up--but only step by careful step.
How young we were! How innocent! All of us like drops of sweet dew teetering on blades of new grass. How old it makes me feel now, how weary in this worn and withered world. "The wine of youth," wrote Carl Jung, "does not always clear with advancing years; sometimes it grows turbid."
Sometimes, yes. But we are always free to remember those first thrilling sips.
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