A husband-head Halloween | PostIndependent.com

A husband-head Halloween

“Making Halloween, Halloween, Halloween!” husband-head sang his traditional decorating tune from “Nightmare Before Christmas” as he readied the front porch for his second-favorite holiday of the year.The first, of course, being the Super Bowl …I watched as husband-head strung up little orange pumpkin lights, hung life-sized plastic skeletons on either side of the entrance, covered the railings with cobwebs and placed his “gravestones” in the front yard.”Are we going to make the little kids cry again this year?” I asked. “That’s always pleasant.””I hope so,” husband-head nodded. “That’s how I measure how good my decorations are.”It seems every year some little costumed creature gets spooked by the house and the eerie music, forcing his parents to DRAG him up our front steps, screaming and crying, to get his treat.”Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe Halloween is supposed to be a fun holiday,” I told husband-head one year after a kid pitched a huge fit in front of the house. “I don’t think the idea is to send them into psychotherapy.”Husband-head just laughed. “It’s Halloween,” he shrugged. “They’re supposed to be scared.”This year, husband-head has added a new decoration to his collection. It’s a ghost with a skeleton head that hangs off the porch and makes scary noises when activated by a motion sensor. A group of about six neighbor kids was playing out front after husband-head had hung up the ghost, when they unknowingly set it off.”WHOOOOO … WHOOOOO … WHOOOOO!” the ghost shrieked as it jiggled around.The surprised kids screamed bloody murder and went running down the block.”Hey, maybe we should leave that up all year,” I observed. “Wouldn’t it be cool if it scared off bill collectors and salespeople?”Of course, two minutes later, the kids came running BACK to see the ghost do it again … and again … and again. At my request, husband-head turned the motion sensor off.”Hey mister, turn that back on!” one kid demanded.Next thing we knew, the kids scrambled up onto the porch and wanted to touch and play with all of husband-head’s toys.”How OLD are you?” one of them asked husband-head, obviously wondering why a “big person” would have such fun stuff.Having wondered that many times myself, I simply raised an eyebrow.”Go ahead,” I urged husband-head. “Tell them you’re a 10-year-old trapped in a 40-year-old body.”Husband-head sat on the front steps and visited with his new-found friends.”Do you know where Green Bay is?” he challenged them.Nobody did.”Do you know who the Green Bay Packers are?” he asked, as if this was certainly a piece of information every 8-year-old should know.”My daddy likes the Broncos,” one kid offered.Husband-head scowled in disgust.”The Packers are the greatest team in the NFL,” husband-head boasted, hoping to breed a new generation of fans for his team. But the kids were more interested in Halloween than football.”Hey mister, are you going to have some good candy?” one little boy wanted to know.”You bet,” husband-head assured him. “I’ll have those mini candy bars with the glow-in-the-dark wrappers.”The kids squealed with delight. I came out and called husband-head in to tell him that his peanut butter and jelly sandwich was ready. That evening I suggested we watch a Halloween movie and gave husband-head the choices of “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” or “The Exorcist.””Pumpkin,” husband-head immediately answered. “Although it’s kind of sad because Charlie Brown gets rocks instead of candy. That’s just terrible.”When it was time for the movie, I looked everywhere for husband-head and finally found him standing in the dark in front of the house, waiving his arms in front of the ghost.”WHOOOOO … WHOOOOO … WHOOOOO!”Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Rifle Citizen Telegram. Her column appears Fridays in the Post Independent. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Rifle Citizen Telegram. Her column appears Fridays in the Post Independent. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.

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