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I’m writing from the weekend before Halloween.
We have a costume party scheduled for tonight. Seven of my kids’ closest friends and their parents. I’ve requested that the adults come dressed for the shindig, as well.
I want this night to be special, like the one Halloween party I can remember from when I was a kid. I went as the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I got the rubber mask at Walmart, but my dad made the rest. He stitched the feet together out of green felt, the hands too. The fingernails were made from milk jugs, ten sharp slices of opaque plastic.
When I walked—no, slithered—into Alex Hilburn’s Halloween party, I was the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I growled instead of talked. I snatched candy with my milk-jug claws. I ruled, and so did the party.
I haven’t seen Alex in decades, but I’ll never forget that night. I remember how his dad served as ringmaster to the spooky circus he'd concocted, leading a gang of nine-year-olds from room to room, dipping our fingers in bowls full of eyeballs and brains.
It didn’t matter that eyeballs were peeled grapes and the brains were Jell-O. I was the Creature, and I was on the loose.
I’ve been working hard to try and make sure my kids have a similar experience tonight. Which is why, for weeks leading up to the party, they’ve been getting visited by “Mr. Pumpkin.”
Mr. Pumpkin lives in Halloweentown and visits kids on Saturday mornings in October. Think "Elf on a Shelf" but for Halloween. Mr. Pumpkin is something I dreamed up a few years back, trying to relive the magic of my youth.
He’s a sneaky little guy who likes to leave clues around the house. Mr. Pumpkin makes kids work for their spooky treats. Last week, he brought my son a plastic claw, the same one my four-year-old had been eyeing since the Halloween décor went up in Walmart.
And that was Mr. Pumpkin’s first mistake.
You see, my daughter is about to turn seven, and she’s not so easily fooled. When she saw that claw, she said, “Hey, that’s the one from Walmart!” She later found a price tag on the pair of black-cat earrings Mr. Pumpkin had left for her.
That evening, before bed, my daughter came to me, holding those same earrings in the palm of her tiny hand. She asked about Mr. Pumpkin. Was he even real?
I looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Real? No, Mr. Pumpkin is magic, and he’ll stick around as long as you believe.”
I was pleased with my answer, but it wasn’t original. A similar sentiment was once told to me after I’d gotten in trouble at school for trying to fight a fellow third grader who’d said Santa Claus was fake.
Mom sat me down that afternoon and talked about magic. She was a kindergarten teacher; she knew all about it. I’ve cherished Mom’s wisdom for going on thirty years now. I’ve done my best to see the best in others, the beauty in the pain, the magic that surrounds us.
To me, there’s no more magical time than Halloween. As the nights turn cooler, our houses grow cozier. They begin to feel more like homes. And let us not forget the spooky stuff, either. The pure fun of playing dress up and running house to house down leaf covered streets, or sticking trembling fingers into a bowl of skinned grapes.
Tonight, when the other families arrive for the first-annual Cranor Halloween Party, there will be magic in the air. I’ll make sure of it.
Don't Know Tough
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Commissions Earned
In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
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• Writing from the Sabbath
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• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
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• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
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