When I was a kid, we didn't celebrate Hallowe'en, because it was the devil's holiday. Instead, we went to church dressed up as saints and/or bible characters to celebrate All Saints' Eve. I am not making this up. I still don't know why it mattered to them; we're not even Catholic.
As a result, I have trouble getting on board with Hallowe'en. Nothing against the day itself; I just don't always remember that it's important to the rest of the world. Only moments ago-- when I walked out the door and saw the neighbors' yards all decorated-- did I realize I have zero candy for any kids who might come knocking on our door tonight. We didn't even carve pumpkins this year. I forgot all about the holiday.
My first college boyfriend was appalled to discover I'd never been trick-or-treating, and insisted not one more year should go by un-treated. He explained at every door about my childhood deprivation; I don't think many folk believed him, but we scored a decent amount of candy anyway. And I wore these awesome multi-colored checkerboard thigh-high stockings that I really wish I still owned even though I haven't owned thigh-highs in years.
When Miss G was just a little thing, we got dolled up and I took her out to the college dorms for the evening. The last few years, we've gone out as a family. (Dan makes the perfect Abe Lincoln, by the way.) But now, with Miss L gone and Miss G old enough to get to and fro the haunted houses on her own, it's back to being just another regular night.
But wait! It's not just another regular night!
October 31 is NaNoWriMo Eve! Tomorrow, I start writing my 50,000 word novel... in just 30 days.
I've downloaded Scrivener, poring over it with the dedication others devote to their zombie make-up. I'm squirreling away post-it notes and plot bunnies like they're mini Snickers bars. And Dan, god love him, promised to keep me stocked in Outrageous Ginger Ale, in amounts to rival any Hallowe'en haul.
It's like a fabulous, nerdy, month-long trick-or-treat. And I plan to eat myself sick.