SO, last night was Halloween. If you have never experienced a small town Halloween, you've led a sheltered life. Creativity runs amuk in small towns at Halloween, So, for that matter does the police force.
As a lady Lions Club member, I've judged several children's costume parties. Let me add that these are children's parties only in the sense that the Westminster Dog Show is for the dogs.
Parents at the annual Halloween costume party begin working on their progeny's dress in July.
Last night, we had a four year old dressed as a monk. Now, I know that the child probably wanted to be a monk. He probably has monk trading cards, a monk bedspread, a monk action figure...he begged his mother to buy him that costume. One poor child had toilet paper rolls painted yellow and glued to his yellow hood. He was macaroni and cheese. There were some children in typical costumes...puppies and Spidermen and Sleeping Beauties. But they didn't win any prizes.
No, the kids in the monks' robes and the chicken suits won the prizes. $5. That's what they won. And the moms won bragging rights. Next year, their kid will be the kid to beat. ( or beat up.)
One year, a sweet-faced three-year-old stood embarrassed while her mother yelled at me. Mom had made her kids' costumes. She'd spent big bucks and countless hours crafting them. They were a set. But they were both pre-schoolers. Mom wanted us to divide up that group so that each of her kids would win first prize.
Anyway, this is an excerpt from one of my stories about the Lions Club planning their annual Halloween costume party.
Les Mooney had suggested that the women might be more suitable than men to judge the annual Halloween costume contest. The other men agreed. It was the primary reason many of them voted to admit women into the Lion’s Club. But it was like tossing the lions to Daniel.
Mary Ann and Susie Smith, wife of the club treasurer, met at the club at 5:30 pm with a bag of fifty-cent pieces and a lot of courage. The first kids arrived about fifteen minutes later, dragged in by their mothers.
There were some clever costumes. One child—Susie thought it was a girl—came in an outfit held on by wide suspenders. It was a horse body with floppy little legs in chaps attached. The kid’s legs fit into the horse’s bottom half. It looked like the little girl was riding the pony. Cute as all get out, it was.
Another child was covered head-to-toe in green taffeta. He was supposed to be lettuce, he said. A Slinky, tubed in brown felt, wriggled out of one side like a worm. The kid kept falling down, tripping over his wilted outer leaves.
Then, there was an assortment of store-bought costumes. Spidermen and princesses and fairies and three Hulks. The kids stood real still against the outer wall. As if they didn’t want to be there. As if they knew what would happen.
Mary Ann announced the pre-school category. Immediately, thirty women with babies in their arms charged the judges’ table. A lot of the little ones screamed—furious with whoever put them into outfits where they couldn’t move their arms. The mothers ignored their children’s cries and paraded them before Mary Ann and Susie.
The Lady Lions put their heads together, then chose three tykes: one sleeping darling dressed like a bottle of salad dressing, a spotted cow with pink udders and a baby dressed like a banana in a white snowsuit and yellow fleece peels. At first, there was shocked silence. Then one of the moms broke into language Mary Ann had heard switching past the premium channels with her Dish remote. The woman shoved her baby at Mary Ann and Susie. Her child was dressed to match her brother, the woman said. A pair of dice. She herself was evidently dressed for the holiday in a pair of shorts and a halter top. Like it was summer. Like it was ninety-eight outside instead of thirty degrees. Anyway, the mom told the women that the baby’s brother was in kindergarten. Otherwise, standing next to one another, it was obvious they would have won. It was those stupid age classes that ruined everything.
Mary Anne nodded and shrugged. The men had told her this was the way it was done, she told the mothers. But what did men know? Next year—next year, they would come up with different categories. The woman was finally persuaded to sit down..
Susie called for the kindergarteners. Mom dragged the other die up. Then another woman pushed through with two little guys in tow. Her boys wore matching white plastic raincoats painted to look like teeth. Baby teeth, and—judging from the smell—one was decayed. There were thirty-seven kindergarteners. The Lady Lions again conferred and chose the teeth, a fire hydrant and a policeman. The tooth-mother raged at them. One of her kids should have first and one second, she said. It was only fair. There were two kids. Why did they have to share one prize? Mary Ann dug two quarters out of her own purse and gave them to the decayed tooth.
Susie called for first graders. There weren’t as many of them, and the judges felt a little easier. That was before two kids came up dressed in identical costumes. They were mummies—their costumes authentically aged and shredded. Mary Ann told Susie she voted for the kid on the right. At that point, a shrieking mother bounded out of her seat and demanded to know how the judges could pick the other child when the boys were dressed alike. Her kid started shaking when his mother towered over him like that, and he turned to his friend and gave him a horrific punch in the nose.
The mom of the kid on the left was still screeching when the mummy on the right cried for his parent. She arrived with the speed and ferocity of a she bear protecting her cub. It took the Lady Lions about three minutes to get the mothers separated and settled down. When they did, the judges again pointed out the right mummy, citing the little stream of red blood running from his nose as the deciding factor—it added realism, they said.
Mary Ann and Susie Smith, wife of the club treasurer, met at the club at 5:30 pm with a bag of fifty-cent pieces and a lot of courage. The first kids arrived about fifteen minutes later, dragged in by their mothers.
There were some clever costumes. One child—Susie thought it was a girl—came in an outfit held on by wide suspenders. It was a horse body with floppy little legs in chaps attached. The kid’s legs fit into the horse’s bottom half. It looked like the little girl was riding the pony. Cute as all get out, it was.
Another child was covered head-to-toe in green taffeta. He was supposed to be lettuce, he said. A Slinky, tubed in brown felt, wriggled out of one side like a worm. The kid kept falling down, tripping over his wilted outer leaves.
Then, there was an assortment of store-bought costumes. Spidermen and princesses and fairies and three Hulks. The kids stood real still against the outer wall. As if they didn’t want to be there. As if they knew what would happen.
Mary Ann announced the pre-school category. Immediately, thirty women with babies in their arms charged the judges’ table. A lot of the little ones screamed—furious with whoever put them into outfits where they couldn’t move their arms. The mothers ignored their children’s cries and paraded them before Mary Ann and Susie.
The Lady Lions put their heads together, then chose three tykes: one sleeping darling dressed like a bottle of salad dressing, a spotted cow with pink udders and a baby dressed like a banana in a white snowsuit and yellow fleece peels. At first, there was shocked silence. Then one of the moms broke into language Mary Ann had heard switching past the premium channels with her Dish remote. The woman shoved her baby at Mary Ann and Susie. Her child was dressed to match her brother, the woman said. A pair of dice. She herself was evidently dressed for the holiday in a pair of shorts and a halter top. Like it was summer. Like it was ninety-eight outside instead of thirty degrees. Anyway, the mom told the women that the baby’s brother was in kindergarten. Otherwise, standing next to one another, it was obvious they would have won. It was those stupid age classes that ruined everything.
Mary Anne nodded and shrugged. The men had told her this was the way it was done, she told the mothers. But what did men know? Next year—next year, they would come up with different categories. The woman was finally persuaded to sit down..
Susie called for the kindergarteners. Mom dragged the other die up. Then another woman pushed through with two little guys in tow. Her boys wore matching white plastic raincoats painted to look like teeth. Baby teeth, and—judging from the smell—one was decayed. There were thirty-seven kindergarteners. The Lady Lions again conferred and chose the teeth, a fire hydrant and a policeman. The tooth-mother raged at them. One of her kids should have first and one second, she said. It was only fair. There were two kids. Why did they have to share one prize? Mary Ann dug two quarters out of her own purse and gave them to the decayed tooth.
Susie called for first graders. There weren’t as many of them, and the judges felt a little easier. That was before two kids came up dressed in identical costumes. They were mummies—their costumes authentically aged and shredded. Mary Ann told Susie she voted for the kid on the right. At that point, a shrieking mother bounded out of her seat and demanded to know how the judges could pick the other child when the boys were dressed alike. Her kid started shaking when his mother towered over him like that, and he turned to his friend and gave him a horrific punch in the nose.
The mom of the kid on the left was still screeching when the mummy on the right cried for his parent. She arrived with the speed and ferocity of a she bear protecting her cub. It took the Lady Lions about three minutes to get the mothers separated and settled down. When they did, the judges again pointed out the right mummy, citing the little stream of red blood running from his nose as the deciding factor—it added realism, they said.
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