I shall never know who the Evil Princess was, nor does it really matter.
The spooky old house where she went to the door is gone now, replaced by something more terrifying, a parking lot that takes up a quarter of a large city block. The Princess likely doesn’t even remember the incident in question. She was my age when, for reasons unexplained, she kicked in the face of my jackolantern.
I know she did this, because I was across the street begging treats from the Methodist preacher’s wife. I might have been a hobo, a safety-pinned surplus uniform version of a soldier, or that might have been the year when I spent several hard-earned dollars on a mask that was kind of a zombie werewolf. I do recall it wasn’t the year of Godzilla, or the Ghost That Almost Died. Those costumes are columns for another day.
It was right at sunset in our town when the little kids came out to play on Halloween. There were a few other treat-hunters in our neighborhood, but nothing like it would be in a couple hours. It was a big deal for me when I was eight and my parents allowed me to freely roam the streets until 8:30 with all the other ghosts, ghouls, GI Joes and baseball players.
We sort-of avoided the homes where we didn’t know anyone, per our parents’ instructions, but if a porch light or pumpkin was lit, we were liable to try making some new friends (at least that was a good excuse). Most of us walked – either in small groups or escorted by parents. We crossed at corners on streets that didn’t look like a school loading zone at 7:30 a.m., driving children from house to house. As I recall, most of the slow-moving cars in our neighborhood were police officers making sure everyone stayed safe.
If it sounds somewhat Norman Rockwell idyllic, well, it was. We had about 16 city blocks of Saturday Evening Post covers, as did many small towns in America.
I did not recognize the girl when we passed each other on the sidewalk, but she didn’t return my greeting. My mother was doling out treats from our front door, when she could prevent my brother, the Old Man and I from raiding the bowl.
As the preacher’s wife dropped something in my decorated brown paper grocery bag, I happened to look across the street just as the Evil Princess drew back and kicked our jackolantern square in the nose. The flashlight inside toppled over and went out, and the girl moved on to the next house.
It’s been nearly 50 years ago – I find it hard to believe I can write those words, but they are true – but I dashed across the street (not at the corner, but I did look both ways) up the two sets of steps stained by the big oaks in the front yard and to the front porch.
I couldn’t believe it. The Evil Princess had smashed my jackolantern.
Now, there were plenty of pranks back then, of course; just a few days before, either Papa or Mother had written a story for our paper carrying a stern warning from the police chief about egg throwing, toilet paper vandalism, and the like.
But this – this was no Halloween trick. This was no harmless prank.
This was, to a little kid who enjoyed Halloween, nothing short of being unpatriotic. I was sure she was a Communist.
I stuck my head in the door and hollered for Miss Lois. She initially suspected the vandal was me, since little girls didn’t do that kind of thing, I convinced her that I could never commit such a repugnant act. Mother called the Old Man, who was still at work, and he promised to check for a replacement on the way home. He arrived a short while later, sans pumpkin. There were none worth having that would fit the budget. But Papa had an idea.
He had a box of toothpicks, and with my dubious assistance, we began rebuilding the pumpkin he and I had carved earlier in the week. Pinning the pieces back together was difficult, if not infuriating. I believe Papa dropped a word or two that earned an admonishing glare from Miss Lois. Just when it was back together, the face collapsed again.
Papa and I both were going to give up at that point – after all, it was after 7 on Halloween night – but Miss Lois saved the day. She broke out a roll of clear plastic wrap. Between the toothpicks, the Saran Company’s invention, and possibly one or two milder words from Papa, our jackolantern was resurrected from a premature trip to the compost pile. The Old Man even walked to a few houses with me while Miss Lois finished supper and handled the trick or treaters.
Halloween has gotten entirely too complex now, what with light shows, animatronics and adults going far beyond the pale with what should be a kid’s decorating plan. Haunted houses and trails and such were unique when I was little; now they’re everywhere, and packed more with gore than faux-frights. We had maybe a dozen movies on three channels leading up to the Big Night, whereas now there are hundreds being shown on dozens of cable and streaming networks starting sometime in September.
I reckon the Evil Princess wasn’t necessarily evil, although all girls were suspect when I was that age. She’s likely a mother or even a grandmother herself now, and might not even remember our spooky old house, much less why she kicked a pumpkin.
But I remember how on that one Halloween, my folks, with a very little bit of help from their youngest child, rebuilt a jackolantern and still had time for trick or treating, a good supper, and watching a scary movie before bed.
And that’s what Halloween should be all about — family.
