Halloween is my least favorite day of the year. Everyone expects you to morph into your inner child for at least one day, dressing up and partying with your friends. Bryce and I did that last night. Bryce had a blast with his troll persona, large rubber mask complete with gigantic nose, enormous pointed ears, and three-foot white beard and flowing white hair over a black monk’s robe. He entered into the costume contest but alas did not win anything. I wore my usual witch’s outfit that took little imagination. I guess we were a striking couple, but certainly Bryce got all the ladies’ attention.
For the last thirty-one years I have put on a game face and made Halloween happen for my two kids and family. The first few years were the hardest, but I really can’t say that it has become easier as time went by. The years’ first orange pumpkins, usually in September, remind me that this holiday is coming soon and I grit my teeth and begin feeling sad. October is the worst month and the last eleven days leading up to Halloween are awful. But I know I must put on my game face for everyone else, so I go along as if nothing is happening to me.
I became widowed at 11 p.m. on Halloween evening. My first husband had a massive heart attack at age 35 in the early hours of Oct. 20, 1979, just five months after moving to NC from his home country, Canada. I was left with a seven year old boy and no substantial income. My entire world had been turned upside down and shattered. I was 34 years old. To this day my son and I have deep scars from this tragedy.