Graves in the Garden
Halloween is my favorite holiday. More than Thanksgiving because I can’t cook. More than Christmas because I hate to battle frantic masses to shop on command.
I love Halloween because every year I get to make my own house guest.
His clothes never change but his head often does.
The first year, he was partial to Garfield and Dr. Pepper. By last year, he preferred a real lap cat and black coffee.
After I make the guest, I dig graves in the garden…
…and plant the giant zombie hands.
I bury bones in fresh dirt.
Last year, I tried my new Yoda pumpkin plug-ins and was grateful not to have to scrape out the goo and carve out a face.
And our youngest son is the only one who still dresses the part. He makes his own costumes and creates a character.
This year is still a mystery. I haven’t quite felt the spirit. I haven’t yet chosen the guest’s head or planted the gravestones. Our son has not bought a mask or make-up or cloak. I did drag home a cast iron rendering pot for my partner because every Irish witch needs a cauldron. It squats on the front porch where the neighbors can see. Maybe tomorrow we’ll fill it with bones.
Posted by Fork in My Eye on October 26, 2012