HALLOWEEN

Halloween.  A holiday that almost everybody in the U.S. recognizes in some way.  Your doctor's office may have spider webs strung across the receptionist's desk and treats in a plastic pumpkin; your neighbor may have three pumpkins on his doorstep; the family next door (who have several young children) may sport blown-up ghosts that light up and wriggle when the sun comes down. And of course there are the haunted houses-your newspaper probably has a special insert featuring haunted houses at churches, community centers or malls. Then, there are the ready-made costumes that you can buy for yourself or your children, many at a hefty price.

I still enjoy Halloween.  Yes, I have three pumpkins, two scarecrows, one witch candleholder on my front porch and inside, a stuffed witch grins from the old antique radio, alongside a pumpkin candle and a few ceramic ghosts.  

I will go to Costco tomorrow and buy two huge bags of candy. And on Halloween night while the chili is simmering on the stove, I will answer the door and fill the baskets of the goblins, ballerinas and Star Trek characters who come to my door.

But now that I'm a senior and my grandchildren live far away, Halloween has become bittersweet.

From the time I was a child until my own sons were in their teens, our family made an annual trek to the Mahan's farm-a magical place on Highway 34 in Greeley, Colorado, across the road from my dad's cattle feedlot.  There, amidst ducks and geese swimming in small ponds, horses in the barn and cattle in their pens, were HUGE piles of pumpkins, colorful ears of Indian corn and bales of hay.  In front of the old farmhouse, relaxing on a swing, were the dummies-dressed no doubt, in the old clothes belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Mahan, who presided over their farm, its animals and fields until well into their late eighties.

I've never known whether the Mahan's Halloween enterprise was a moneymaker or done out of out of the joy of giving to young families, but that is of little consequence.    What matters is

the memories these wonderful people created for thousands of people.  

I can still feel the anticipation my children felt when we finally drove our car up the rutted road of the farm.  The kids could hardly wait to jump out of the car and rush headlong in those pumpkin piles to find the perfect pumpkin (however, their choices were limited by one rule we always followed:  you had to be able to carry your own pumpkin over to the old wooden scale to be weighed by Mr. Mahan, so your pumpkin was both a triumph in design and proof of your ability to carry something REALLY heavy if you REALLY wanted it).

Mr. Mahan's strong, gnarled, chapped hands would weigh pumpkin after pumpkin, while Mrs. Mahan took your cash and made change out of an old metal box. And they always had a special greeting for us and sent best wishes to my dad, who could no longer accompany us on our annual pumpkin trek.

On the afternoon of Halloween night, we would carve the pumpkins, christen them with special names, scoop the seeds and roast them in the oven and set them out on our front porch.  The kids would dress up in conglomerations of old cowboy hats, sheets, big shirts, fake beards, old canes, a little face makeup and head out to the neighborhood without the accompaniment of hovering, worried parents.  It seems as though they always came home quite cold, usually with the year's first snow frosting their fake beards.  We would have hot chocolate with some of the treats gathered in old pillow slips.  (I would always find petrified candy at the back of their closets sometime the next spring-still in the old pillowcases).

I guess I savor those memories like the kids savored their treats for months and months.  But my memories don't grow stale like old candy; they are still very much alive for me.