So tell me, is your favorite Halloween icon a witch saddled on a broomstick? A black kitty scurrying across Military in front of your truck? A blanket wearing kid insisting on a night in the pumpkin patch?
Maybe you prefer kids in ghost outfits stumbling over their sheets as they near your front door.
Perhaps you enjoy character costumes, themed to the latest super hero Hollywood production?
Wanna bet how many kids make themselves up to be the coronavirus on the 31st?
Let’s face it, Halloween is the time for the sickos to have their day—I mean, night.
Look around town. There are homes—which otherwise have cute flowers and “All Are Welcome” signs by the front door—with coffins in their driveways. Some have not dusted their outdoor cobwebs for weeks just so they can toss glitter on them and call it “seasonal decorations.”
Those tombstones will preclude mowing for two weeks.
If aliens followed us around on All Hallows Eve, would they not conclude that we haze our youngest by forcing them to run a gauntlet of disgusting images—some with sound—to grab a miniature bite of chocolate?
Those space creatures would have to conclude that chocolate bars are more important than gold ones. I like the aliens already.
The truth is, we are missing an opportunity here, people.
I suggest in the strongest terms, that we adjust our celebration of Halloween. It needs to have a healthy dose of inner revelation, a soul cleansing reality.
It was Tyler Perry who claimed, ”Everybody’s got skeletons in the closets. Every once in a while, you’ve got to open up the closet and let the skeletons breathe.”
I agree wholeheartedly.
How about we use Halloween to cleanse our souls like the ancient Christians who flogged themselves publicly?
October 31st can be the day to let our skeletons out.
A day for disinfecting our sordid souls.
I envision a neighbor’s skeleton standing by the front mailbox with a sign, “Waiting for the official determination of my IRS audit, which as you can clearly tell, did not go well.”
I see a teenager’s skeleton, with hands turned upward, followed by a skeleton of a dog with “Advanced Biology worksheets, Chapter 8” and a book report on Melville’s Moby Dick stuffed in its stomach.
I could conjure up a skeleton of a light-hearted barfly, bellied-up to a make-shift pub, holding a sign, “Gimme a drink and a mop.”
See, we can continue celebrating Halloween old school...doling out candy to the delight of every local dentist. Or we can reveal our buried skeletons, exposing our most intimate secrets, exorcising our fear of someone discovering them by happenstance.
We could then rest assured that we have appeased those cloistered skeletons, who, through no fault of their own, have been relegated to a tiny, dark room that smells of embarrassment and misguided bets.
OK. Not up for that? Naaaah. Me neither.
I’m going to be Batman this year.
Don Cunningham of Fremont is a freelance columnist.
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