When I was four or five, I had my first Halloween. my mother made me up as a black cat -- pink nose, drawn whiskers, and furry cat ears affixed to a headband. I wasn't really sure I wanted to go trick-or-treating; even to my kindergarten mind, it seemed too social, too aggressive, too confrontational to ask, nay, demand free sweets from strange people I wasn't sure I liked or not.
My mother, astute woman as she was and is, sensed I was going to cling to my shell forever if I was allowed to stay home, so she nudged me out the door, and as I frowningly crossed the street, extolled all the wonderful rewards of Halloween (mainly candy).
We knocked at a house at the end of our street. At first, there was no response. I was just beginning to worry when there was a feral growl -- a tall monster with an awful hairy green face burst out, roaring.
I began to cry.
Right away, the poor guy -- who must have been in about his twenties -- dropped his arms, and even under a latex mask, seemed sorry, worried by my tears. As he tried to offer me chocolate, I hid behind my mother.
She ended up taking the candy for me and thanking him. After that, I could not continue, so we went home, a shaken (me) and slightly exasperated (her) pair.
Thus ended this holiday of ghouls for young Gloria -- the literal scaredy cat.
posted at 7:27:03 am
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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