That Most Hallowed

        Gathered around the heavy, antique cherry wood dining room table, we wait. Our group stares at the candle flickering in the center, and we hold hands. A breeze carrying a sprinkling of dust from fallen, dried and crumbled leaves rushes through the window. The chilling, leafy air co-mingles with the heady scent of the table lacquer and melting candle wax before racing straight into the depths of our lungs. We stare at the flame and concentrate. There is no need to speak. We hear each other’s thoughts. Any second now. Keep concentrating. Summon them. Outside, we hear a rustling that sounds like the flapping of wings, or of fabric whipping in the wind. Next, we hear faint footsteps, steadily approaching. The group stiffens. Our hands tighten, and we call the visitors forth into this dimension. We hear their cackling and scratching. They are at the front door.

            “TRICK-OR-TREAT.” 

It’s my turn. I leave the circle and dispense chocolates to a three foot mummy, and a baby Lady Guinevere being carried by a significantly older and larger zombie. I wonder how they will remember this night.

            Halloween evokes a slightly dangerous combination of carefree childhood abandon, a suspension of the social mores of daily life, and a sinister aesthetic. What absolute joyous fun. I love Halloween today as much as in my childhood. With no lack of suspicion my mother comments, “You’ve loved Halloween since you were tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny.” I’m positive she has inspected my scalp for the mark of the beast, 666, repeatedly. The attention is part of the fun.

            Halloween ushers in the infamous holiday season. However, instead of celebrating a strict reverence to a disputed history or dominant religion, like the subsequent holidays Thanksgiving and Christmas respectively, Halloween liberates its revelers. It encourages irreverence, questioning, and individuality. It embraces that most hallowed value in the United States, freedom.

            These attributes contribute to my deeply felt joy for Halloween. I remember as a child that the thought of its freedom, its challenge to express, compelled my desire to transform into the most hideous and vile creature of the night possible with my limited resources. Concocting the most realistic blood I could muster using food coloring and simple syrup, I wondered why other children would choose to be a clown, a princess, or a ghost comprised of a sheet with two holes for eyes. Given the opportunity to break the rules, I met the night head-on, always frightening, and always gory. As an adult, I understand that the creature inside each of us, begging to be freed, is unique. I celebrate the variety of transformations knocking on my door. Life would be hugely boring if we were all the same. Being a nation built on immigration, there’s definitely room for both the football player and the phantom; the fairy princess and the witch. There must be room for Halloween and Christmas. Anything else wouldn’t be American.

            Returning from the door, I reassume my place in the circle. We join hands, focus on the candle, and concentrate on allowing the next spirit to come forth. We know our actions are not only fun, tongue-in-cheek, and childish…they’re patriotic.