Sepia Saturday #392. Hallowe'en 1950

Cakebox Tales

Memoir: Hallowe’en 1950

“Hallowe’en Apples!” I sang to Mrs. Hawkins’ storm door.

There was no answer so I shouted as loud as I could, “Hallowe'en Apples.” The door opened and Mrs. Hawkins’ hair-netted coiffure appeared--she opened the door only a crack because the wind was blowing hard. A whiff of denture soak and mothballs escaped from inside. I shivered in the cold.

“Oh...it’s Helen.” she said squinting behind her glasses, appraising my seven-year-old self.  “Look Harry . . . she’s dressed like a good little housewife with her apron and…” she trailed off, out of superlatives.

“But I’m a princess, Mrs. Hawkins,” I explained as she dropped two apples in my bag. She slammed the door before I could point out my tiara and the rhinestone bracelet on my wrist.

I had to explain my outfit at every neighbor’s door. I should have chosen the monk costume. People seemed to get that one right away.

My sister and I had the choice of three costumes every year: the puffy snowman; the big monk or the fat princess. All the costumes involved a white sheet with a hole in the middle for your head. Mom sewed big black buttons down the front for the snowman; the big monk got all the family’s rosaries around the neck and a rope around the middle; the princess involved my mother’s pink organdy apron, a plastic tiara and a lot of explanation. Puffiness was unavoidable because it was cold in late October on the prairies in Canada. There could be snow. In those days, before Gore-tex and wind-resistant textiles, we depended on bulk to keep us warm.

On that Princess Hallowe’en, I lumbered out of our house and down the icy stairs, the tiara perched on my toque. I rocked from side to side under the masses of clothing Mom piled on me. The organdy apron kept slipping undone and flapping open in the wind. I held the tiara in place with one hand and clutched my bag with the other. Somehow I made my way around the block and came home triumphant with thirty apples, enough for five apple crisps.

Next year Woolworth’s introduced paper costumes to our town. Understanding their market, they stocked XXL sizes, large enough to cover our winter clothes, but far too long in the legs and arms. We cut the excess off, but the scissor surgery made the costume fragile. In our flimsy paper suits we left the house looking passable --my sister like a fat Superman and me, a fat Snow White but after five minutes in the wind, the costumes ripped. With shreds and tatters flapping we looked like resurrected zombies, shuffling from house to house.

In the Sepia prompt, the witch claims her charms are "new and right up to date." Well, our tattered Zombie rags would have been up to date today—the costumes were perfect for 2017. We were sixty years too early.