A Rural Alberta Halloween
October 31st in rural Alberta, back in the 80s, was usually frosty and sometimes snowy.
Every costume had to be creative, and it had to be cozy. Each one either concealed a turtleneck and bibbed ski pants underneath or was made from a warm fabric such as felt or fuzzy fur.
That's how I ended up as a crayon, my sister as an apple, and my brother as a gorilla.
Most of our costumes were made by my Granny Rowswell.
I can still see Granny's hands. They were smooth and always clean, her tidy nails curving softly over the tips of her fingers, never painted. They smelled of Noxzema.
She would thread the needle with patience, then guide the fabric forward as she watched the stitches form and pressed her knee against the lever at the side. When a seam was finished, a quick, neat snip released the thread.
That magic happened at her Necchi sewing machine, which folded away into a wooden desk in the laundry room, just off the back entrance of the house.
The chair had a secret drawer beneath its peach leather seat, where old cigarette tins held her extra pins and needles.
We kept Granny busy in the spring with dance costumes, and again in the weeks before Halloween.
We'd come in through the back door and raid the cookie jar for her famous oatmeal cookies while she opened the McCall's pattern envelope and unfolded the tissue pattern and headpiece template tucked inside.
Then came the measuring and the cutting, holding the cut-out pieces up to eyeball whether they'd fit before she sewed them together.
After that, the sewing began. I imagine Granny sewed all week in between chores, watching her daytime soap, Another World, and catching the horse races while we were off at school, my brother at hockey practice, and my sister and me at dance class.
The final fitting was usually two or three days before Halloween, when we'd pop in again for any slight adjustments. While we waited, we'd settle on the floor in front of the coffee table with Grandpa snoozing on the couch behind us.
We drew sketches on the backs of old horse racing forms with bits of broken crayons kept in a tin box, played tic-tac-toe, or took turns with a game of Trouble, the Pop-O-Matic dome rattling in the centre of the board.
Anything too rowdy, like the tabletop hockey game, was saved for the basement.
Before we left, we always gave Granny and Grandpa a hug or a kiss goodbye in the kitchen. Then out the back door we went, through the garage and scrambling into the car, smiling, with our tummies full of cookies and our costumes in hand.
And then, at last, Halloween night arrived.
Trick-or-treating didn't begin until after supper, so we headed out in the cool and the dark, which made it all the more thrilling.
The three of us kids were packed into the Oldsmobile, my brother claiming shotgun as always, my sister and me tucked in the back.
We floated through the night over gravel backroads, the headlights sweeping ahead and capturing tall prairie grasses, wild willows swaying in the wind, and the occasional glimmer of a set of eyes peering out from the ditch, either a coyote or a fox.
We more or less followed the bus route, stopping at every cousin's place and friend's farm along the way.
The steady click of the turn signal meant we were heading down another long laneway into a farmyard, often lined with giant spruce casting deep, dark shadows. Lilacs and caragana crowded the edges, concealing ghosts and goblins.
At the entrances, jack pines stood watch, and I was certain witches sat hidden among them on their brooms, waiting.
At the end of each laneway, a front door would open, and our neighbours would greet us with a smile. There were often chocolate bars, Tootsie Rolls, candy corn, and chips, but the best treats were the homemade ones: monster cookies, candy apples, and my Mom's caramel popcorn balls.
Eventually, the Oldsmobile would turn into our own driveway. Our farmhouse sat newly planted amid a field of lawn dotted with spruce, poplars, willows, and ornamental honeysuckle shrubs.
The gravel lane had a soft curve and wound around a circle garden so you could drive through without ever having to back up.
In the spring, that circle of clay swallowed many pairs of rubber boots. We imagined it was quicksand and felt grateful that it was only ever the boots that got pulled to the bottom of the pit.
Walking up the steps onto our big, open front deck, you'd find hand-carved jack-o'-lanterns glowing, along with Halloween decorations and dry ice burbling and spilling over to create fog and mist.
But no matter how spooky the front step looked, you always felt the warmth and welcome of our front porch.
People often came from miles around for Mom's famous caramel popcorn balls, hand-rolled in butter and wrapped in waxed paper, and then they'd come in for a visit.
Inside, our costumes and our cousins' costumes came off, down to sweatpants or cords and turtlenecks, with paint still on our faces.
We ran around the living room or slid down the stairs together until it was time to call it a night. Full of candy and treats, yet somehow pooped from the adventure and all the visits, we'd brush our teeth and make our way to bed.
I hold my childhood memories close to my heart, and I hold my son's Halloween memories just as tightly: a snow pea, a skunk, a puppy, a dinosaur, a cowboy, and a firefighter.
Every costume was hand-sewn by our dear Karen Bass, whom we call Beebs.
She made each Halloween extra special with creations that were warm, cozy, and made with love.
My Mom still opens her door with the best treat bags in the neighbourhood, and she has become a bit of a destination for the country kids who make their way to her acreage each year.
These days, I find myself carrying on the tradition in my own way. Throughout the garden and onto the front step, gauze drifts through the trees and catches in the branches.
From a distance, it appears ghostly in the darkness, moving softly in the autumn wind. Children make their way up the walk toward the glow of the front door, just as we once followed long laneways to welcoming farmhouses.
Watching them and welcoming them in, I remember it all.
The costumes stitched at Granny's sewing machine. The smell of Noxzema on her hands. Oatmeal cookies from the jar. Horse racing forms spread across the coffee table. Broken crayons mixed together in a beat-up tin. The click of a turn signal on a dark country road. Front doors opening.
Friendly smiles. Warm welcomes. Cotton pillowcases heavy with treats. Caramel popcorn balls wrapped in waxed paper.
And somehow, all these years later, the magic carries on.
In honour of the magic in the air, here is the famous recipe for Auntie Irene's Caramel Popcorn Balls.
Auntie Irene's Caramel Popcorn Balls.
I dare you to get your hands sticky creating these ooey-gooey, chewy treats for your family and friends.
Happy Halloween Everyone!
