Most every child has a favorite character they long to imitate at Halloween. I believe these characters are telling. They say something about who we will become; about the characters and traits that we admire enough to covet, even for a night. Perhaps we don't care to know these things about ourselves, but remembering is a river we can follow to self-knowledge. In this way we are at least able to change what we don't like, and capitalize on what we do.
I was a hobo. Every year, same thing. My longing for life on the rails and adventure through poverty never changed. I've outgrown this fantasy partly because my body can't quite handle sleeping beneath the stars under an old woolen army blanket, leaping from moving trains, or walking the ties for days homeless and hungry. Sure, a large part of my desire was pure fantasy. These men (and a few women) lived incredibly hard and short lives. But they had adventures and they saw the country in a way few of us will ever see it.
In my mind, and from the safety of my elementary school yard, I would spend days creating my character. This was all good practice for the writing years. I dreamed of sleeping in rocking freight cars, cooking my coffee in a tin can over an open fire, hobnobbing with other hobos and sharing what we had. Back in the '50's and early '60's there were plenty of my idols still living the life. It hadn't been long since Woody Guthrie was writing his songs from the open doors of a train car, legs dangling above the rails.
On Halloween afternoon, I would rush home and begin putting together my costume. Although my outfit required a bit of drag, Mom didn't seem to mind. It was cheap. It was easy. We had everything but the corncob pipe in a closet somewhere, and pipes were easy enough to come by at Woolworth's. A rope around my waist served as the belt that would hold up a pair of my brother's britches. I'd pick out one of Dad's plaid flannel shirts and slide my feet into a pair of his old oxfords padded with a few pair of socks to keep them on my feet. One of PaPaw's old felt hats crushed down around my ears, and I was ready. All I needed was make-up and accessories.
I'd choose a long crooked stick from the oak outside, stuff a red bandana full of newspapers to make it look nice and fat, and if I was lucky, there'd be a pair of old winter gloves I could cut the fingers out of. Momma would dot my face with eyeliner, smear it around my cheeks and chin as black stubble, and there I'd be: staring back from the mirror with my bright eyes, the hobo I longed to be the entire rest of the year.
Momma could hurriedly move from me to the Frankenstein and fairy princesses my brother and sisters longed to be. I was done and outside, shuffling around in my large shoes, smelling leaf smoke on the air as the neighbors raked and burned, and waiting for dark. But already, I was fulfilled. In my costume, I was a hobo. I rode the rails. I drank my coffee hot and black from a tin cup. I read the secret language of hobos inscribed on barns and doorposts at every stop--who would give and who would not and who would barely let you live. Nothing was ever as good as it was in my mind. After all, I was sent trick-or-treating, not down to the train yards.
In the next couple of weeks, remember what you loved to look like as a child at Halloween. Who was your favorite character? Think about what it meant to become this creature, this character for a night filled with ghosts and goblins and all the candy you could eat. Remember, write it down, and learn a little something more about yourself. If it scares you just a bit, so much the better.
No comments:
Post a Comment