Ghost Upon the Floor

     Last fall, when the wind was just starting to cool down, and the leaves were just short days from beginning to curl up and die, I made it to Salem, Massachusetts. Upon hearing the word-- Salem-- images are insantly conjured up out of the fall leaves, of one of the darker chapters in the history of the land and communitites we now know as America.

     I hope you had yourself a scary little Christmas, holiday, solistice or whatever early winter rite
you may or may not celebrate. In seasons past, I have written about the scary ghost stories and things that go bump in the night around Christmas. Be it the four ghosts of Charles Dickens' carol, or the punishing Krampus, the Ghost here remains fascinated by the nightmares of Christmas.

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     This year, I started reading about the La Befana, the Italian Christmastime legend. Anyone who knows the story of the Befana will know she is a kind, old woman with a broom who brings good children presents on Christmas. Many will tell you she is a witch. Delving deep into the Italian mythology, however, I have not found enough evidence to convict her of witchcraft. Perhaps the fact that Befana is old, with a broom at her side as a constant was enough for her to become a witch by association while the legend lived on and aged-- or, perhaps, it was the intent of the stories which were told to cast her always a witch. Never the matter; there is something about the legend of the Santa Claus-like woman being a witch which enamours the Halloween heart. And something, too, very true to the part of the witch in legend, where the indiviudal will become labeled a witch, for displaying simple pieces of the archetype.

     More formally, the story of Befana has tried to explain her as an heir to a heathen goddess, or at the least begetting her name from such an earth goddess. Befana is commonly described as a devoted housekeeper, who in the most often told story meets the three Magi on their way to visit the Christ child in Bethlehem, and, after they offer to have Befana join them on their quest, are turned down by her, for she has too much to do. Too many floors to be swept and kept clean, too much to do, to go on such a journey. Befana, on their leaving, regrets her decision, and has since spent the ages looking for the Christ child; finding other children on Christmas, and bearing them gifts, when she realizes she has not found the child she is searching for, yet.


     The Christmas ghosts, the Christmas horned-one, the Christmas witch. It would appear there is enough during the dark months while the snow is falling to keep a Halloween child involved, entertained, interested.

     To further celebrate my Befana Christmas, I attempted cut-out cookies of the old woman, with the help of one of my witch cookie cutters-- to questionable success.

     Although the season I so love is over, and I have-- with regret-- accepted that-- I am still here. I have to admit, with all these jingling bells, snowflakes, red-suited men and reindeer, I feel terribly out of place, such as our friend Mr. Jack Skellington here.

For this dark, cold, blustery early winter morning, some words-- and images-- of wisdom from the great cartoonist Charles Addams.

     After Halloween, a photograph of Margaret Hamilton, in the dress of the character which made her famous and likely immortal, with Oscar the Grouch on Seasame Street came to my attention. Forever a fan of the witch, and Margaret's incarnation of the green, slipper-stealing role-- and of Jim Henson's mupperty-- I clicked over to YouTube faster than you can say "I'll get you my--" 

     The first few days of November are always a melancholy time. Pumpkins begin to leave windows, be thrown out, and gradually the orange glow and the crisp cool nights are replaced by images of turkeys, faceless pumpkins and cold, cold nights. All while Christmas carols begin to sneak their bells into the air.

 However, this year found me with appropriate bookends for the All Hallow's season. Earlier in the season, I wrote about how going to the "Frightworld" haunted attraction was the perfect beginning to set the spirit for the season. Last night, I found myself at "Frightworld" again, picking up what is now my new favorite t-shirt. Brilliantly, "Frightworld" was still open this weekend and delivering the scares. Walking into the building, hearing people scream, watching a group of girls walk out of a haunt clutching each other, I saw in the illuminated darkness that Hallowen is alive and well. Seeing the outside of the Eerie Asylum haunt, watching the lights flicker and hearing the screams made me want to walk through each one of them again-- and I would have, if it weren't for the people waiting for me out in the car.

 Thank you, Frightworld, for giving such a fitting beginning and end to Halloween 2013. Here's to next season-- and the three-hundred sixty-some days I have to blog about my favorite time of year until it is actually, again, here.

     Well. The day for the blog is finally here. The reason I write these thoughts here, All Hallow's Eve is here. And I seem to be spent from the day, the night. Always, the rush to get the lights up, the tombstones out, the costume on before the trick or treaters arrive. Again, this year I believe I did a fair job of it -- but not enough, never enough.

      Notable things I did this Halloween include the likes of watching "Halloween" (or having it on in the background, at least; and the original, of course) three times and "Hocus Pocus" two and a half today, and carving several pumpkins. Among my jack o'lanterns, I carved Winifred Sanderson from one of my favorite and most enjoyable seasonal films "Hocus Pocus" (with a pattern from Zombie Pumpkins) and Jessica Lange as Constance Langdon from Season 1 of "American Horror Story." The pumpkins, too, valiant efforts.

      God, do I love this holiday. Everything it stands for; every foam tombstone out in the yard, every trick or treater wide-eyed at my fog machine spraying fog on the porch, every wig and piece of makeup to create a costume. The harvest, the day when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinniest, when everyone, no matter living or dead, can walk amongst us, and everyone can be whomever she or he wants to be. Mask or no mask.