“Almost done?” I asked Sandi on Halloween.
Sandi and our friend, Anna, each bent over a sewing machine and worked without letup on the costumes, a hooded, ankle-length cloak for each boy.
“Another 10 minutes.”
I glanced at the boys. The sun was going down, and even though they couldn’t speak, I recognized their eagerness. “OK, but hurry, please. We don’t want a meltdown, or worse, two meltdowns.”
Homemade costumes were nothing new to me. In my trick-or-treating days, manufactured costumes were a frivolous extravagance and never indulged. That didn’t matter to me, though. I had my imagination.
My gray sweatshirt looked enough like chain mail. I added a picket, liberated from an old backyard fence, and I was a knight with my trusty sword.
A pair of goggles around my neck made me a race car driver. A smudge of brown water color on my cheeks and I looked like I was the first to cross the finish line.
If I got a Civil War kepi for Independence Day, always blue, it only took a navy jacket to complete the uniform. Coffee grounds, held on with white glue, showed a beard in progress, and I became a grizzled veteran.
Sandi lifted a hooded cloak off the sewing machine with Anna following just minutes later. We buttoned the cloaks around their necks and they lifted their arms, trying out these strange coats without sleeves. Then, both crowded around the door, eager for a night of pillage and plunder.
I watched my two little elves in ankle length cloaks scurry before me in the night. They still couldn’t talk, but I didn’t need words to enjoy their excitement. The magic of this night isn’t purchased. It’s in the imagination of children that go out once a year on All Hallow’s Eve.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.