Making Up For Lost Time

Today is Halloween, a holiday that evokes bittersweet emotions in me. Like every kid in America, I was a youngster who loved candy. Still do, in fact. But as a child growing up in a home of which some might call “overly sensitive to anything not blatantly Christian”, I was denied the pleasures of trick-or-treating, based on the belief (held only by my parents, mind you) that anyone and everyone who has ever participated in the Druidic ritual of going door to door in search of candy (which HAS to be the devil’s bidding, since Jesus obviously never even ATE candy) would forever be damned.

And as if this weren’t bad enough, one year my parents decided to make converts of all the little “heathens” who did not see things our way. So they passed out tracks that told of Halloween’s satanic roots. Oddly enough, almost all of these little “heathens” attended our church, where my mom taught the kids’ Sunday School class, a fact that was somehow lost on her on All Hallow’s Eve. These evil kids needed a good scarin’ to see the error of their ways. Not a bad scarin’, mind you. Not the Halloween kind of scarin’ that comes from free-thinking, hippie kids runnin’ around in their wolfman suits and demon masks. No way – fear is evil. They needed the good kind of scarin’ - the kind that comes through knowing that Halloween was started by the Druids who, like the Masons, would drink your blood if you didn’t give them candy.

Yes, I was one of those kids. October 31st was the loneliest day of the year for me.
Now that I’m grown, with kids of my own, I’ve been able to assess the extent of the damage inflicted upon me by my parents. Halloween is a celebration of candy, and I was given a lemon to suck on. So, as any normal, red-blooded American parent, I’m now living vicariously through my children. My strategy for this Halloween was simple: find the biggest neighborhood with the biggest houses, arm my kids with pillow cases and tell them not to come home until they’re filled to the brim (do pillow cases have brims?) with candy.

Since we live in a town that has less than 3000 residents, this year’s trick-or-treating has been relocated to my brother’s neighborhood in Atlanta. The kids think they’re visiting cousins, but they’re actually carrying out my Halloween redemption plan. We’ve rehearsed their instructions over and over. Pillowcases full, don’t come home with anything less. Don’t accept apples, rasins, carrot-sticks or any other ‘alternative treat’. If you see a “Halloween is Evil” track, turn and run – don’t ask questions… don’t accept it… just turn and run. Chocolate is the object of desire, but we’ll also accept bubble gum, blow-pops, twizzlers and anything from the Wonka family. Once the candy is harvested, it will be presented to Dad who will evoke the privilege of Prima Nocta (first night) by having his way with the candy. Afterwards, everyone will be rewarded in accordance with his or her ability to meet quota.

This Halloween could possibly go a long way in atoning for the sins of Halloween past.

My Saturday Plans

This Saturday, I will venture into the unknown. This Saturday, I risk life and limb to hang out with a group of shady characters, because once again, I couldn’t say no. This Saturday, I will volunteer my time helping with a Child Identification Program sponsored by none other than our local coven of Masons here in Southwest GA.

That's right - the Masons - those mysterious, Satanic, shape-shifting, reptilian humanoids who built the Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Eiffel Tower and the bridge over the River Kwai. The very ilk to which we owe such unexplainable phenomena as the JFK assassination, the Roswell sightings, the Apollo Moon landings, Chia pets and the mysterious omission of the orange from the Froot of the Loom brand. They say every President we’ve ever had, with the exception of Jimmy Carter, was a Mason. On a side note, it’s really saying something when your Presidency sucks so bad that even Satanists won’t claim you. Maybe the explanation for his continued boneheaded political involvement is that he’s still trying to prove that he’s worthy of Masonic acceptance. But I digress. Point is, Masons, according to legend, are power-hungry, Satan worshipping beasts, bent on total World domination.

So why would I, the father of 3 small children, lay it all on the line to hang out with a bunch of fire-breathing dragons? Because I was beguiled by one of their smooth-talking brethren. When asked to help by “brother Calvin” (name changed to protect the brotherhood of the Masons), I found myself slipping in and out of consciousness. His words dripped off his cloven tongue like honey from the comb and sounded like the sweet, melodious song of the harpies. The more he spoke, the more I became enticed and intrigued. My resolve melted away and I soon found myself a willing vessel through which he could do his bidding. “Yes master,” I said, “anything you say master!” The room began to spin and I went into a trance. I experienced flashes of light and colors I had never seen before. There were mirrors on the ceiling… pink champagne on ice. And then he said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.' And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast. They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast. Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. 'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive. You can check-out any time you like, but you can never leave!

I woke with a start as he slithered out of my office and into the night air. I was shaking from a cold sweat as I realized I had just been bewitched by a Mason. I had given away 6 hours of my life (note the number ‘6’ – only a crocodilian Mason would ask for 6 hours!). And so… this Saturday… instead of sitting at home watching Georgia Tech and Florida State in 50 inches of high definition, I will be hangin’ with the Masons.