By Sarah E. Murphy

I wrote the following poem in the fall of 1989, when I was 17, a senior in Mike Rainnie’s poetry class at Falmouth High School. Although my deserted neighborhood of Falmouth Heights in the 70s and 80s was a ghost town, Halloween was still a major event in our family. My dad would escort us to the scattered homes within walking distance, then he’d  chauffeur us around in “the blue car” or the wood-paneled station wagon, the evening culminating with sundaes at the home of our friends, Kevin and Mary Lane, who lived near Falmouth Harbor. Every year, we’d try to “fool them” by pretending the gaggle of children on the doorstep *wasn’t  the Murphy kids, while Dad watched from the shadows, suddenly jumping out to “surprise” them. It never got old.

My dad had an exceptionally happy childhood, remaining a kid at heart his entire life. Therefore, he was always able to make the everyday an adventure and holidays even more magical.

Little did I know then, I’d someday live one street over from the Lanes, in the neighborhood of Belvidere Plains. The spooky woods where Dad would stealthily park the car have been cleared and replaced with condos. The Lanes have both passed away, and their home is now advertised by a sign out front as a summer rental.

So many things from my youth are a distant memory, but no matter how melancholic I sometimes feel, I’m forever grateful for them.

Those Hallowed Eves

Everything was enveloped in an orange glow

as the leaves

scurried about

like last-minute shoppers.

Each tree seemed to be plotting

some ghoulish trick

and I found myself

looking over

my shoulder

at every turn.

We’d retrieve

our garb

from its off-season hideaway

and everything had that basement smell

the tell-tale sign of

Halloween.

Dad would again don

his dented

Spock mask

while Mom modeled

the old woman.

“I wore it on our first Halloween,” she’d say

looking fondly at

my dad.

Getting down those three bites of dinner

seemed the most difficult chore of

my life as I

bounced up and down in my seat.

We always waited til

there wasn’t a shred of light before we’d head out

and I remember giving friends a horrified look when they’d mention “starting around five.”

When fully jeweled, costumed and

made up

we’d go flying

down the

family room stairs

clutching onto our neon candy bags

with the black plastic handles

that snapped shut

given to us by

Officer Nyari

along with some Halloween warnings

about poison and razor blades.

At last, we’d begin

our magical evening

that Dad

looked forward to

as much as we did

for childhood is in

all of us

no matter who gets to

ring the doorbell.

Sarah E. Murphy

October 1989