The best things aren't always the finest one
This Halloween, as my family light the candles in our freshly carved jack-o'-lanterns, I'll be in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on my pumpkin pies.
The pungent aroma of spices and candlelit pumpkins inspire thoughts of my childhood and Halloweens past, rekindling in my memory a time, when three generations of my family lived together under one roof and a special day when I learned from my grandpa that all that glitters isn't gold.
It was 1950 and my family and I were sharing a roomy, two story home with my grandparents. Grandma's kitchen smelled sweet, just as it always did that time of year. Bottles of vanilla and bowls of brown sugar and spices, flour and butter were carefully arran- ged on the kitchen table; all the ingredients for pumpkin pies. Six of her biggest backyard pumpkins were lined up on the counter for carving.
Grandpa had just finished shelling a big sack of walnuts and almonds for homemade Halloween candy.
"We'll have plenty of glazed nuts for our little trick or treaters", chirped Granpa.
Carving pumpkins and collecting candied treats was all part of the anticipated Halloween celebration, but for me and my friends in the third grade class at Lincoln Glen elementary school, the most important part of Halloween was the School's annual costume contest.
I poured my heart and soul into making my elaborate costume the best it could be, and every year the grand prize eluded me.
Just before Halloween, Grandpa had taken me to the local movie house to see two films, "Flash Gordon" and "Robbie The Robot". Like most young girls my age, I was dazzled by the handsome and celestial Flash Gordon and his gossamer girl friend, Dale Arden.
The outer-space film fueled my imagination and inspired my Halloween costume for that year. I decided I'd go to the contest as the illustrious Dale Arden. I was determined to be the most beguiling, glittering contestant the judges had ever seen. Mom had even promised to let me wear some of her exotic "Red Taboo" lipstick for the big occasion. The night before the contest, I slipped into my costume and modeled it in front of my bedroom mirror. Papa's little dog, Tippy, attracted by the dangling beads and frilly crinolines Tippy tugged and nipped at my fancy costume with his sharp teeth. I shooed him away and before going to bed, I hung my spectacular gown on my bedroom chair.
As I slept, peacefully dreaming of the next day's exciting contest, Tippy, unable to resist the temptation of my beaded costume, sneaked back into my room. By the next morning, my gossamer gown was in shreds.
When I awoke the next day, I was horrified to discover what Tippy had done. Hearing my loud cries of anquish, the entire household came running.
"I can't go to the contest now," I sobbed, clutching my tattered costume in my hands.
But my papa had other ideas. "We saw two movies that night at the picture show, remember?" asked my Papa. "Those robots were pretty impressive. I can whip you up a robot costume in five minutes".
"NO-WAY"! I cried. I wanted to be unique and glamorous. I wanted to glitter and shine like a heavenly star, not a dull, gray, robot.
But my Italian Papa wasn't going to take no for an answer and he set to work making me a robot costume out of odds and ends from around the house. With a hunk of wire from his chicken coop, an old radio antenna, a cardboard box, some knobs off Nonna's cupboard doors, gismos and gadgets and a pair of kitchen egg beaters, somehow, remarkably, Grand papa had fashioned a robot costume of sorts.
I still refused to put on the make-shift costume, but, somehow, my Papa in his wisdom convinced me to slip into it. A pair of Nonno's black boots completed the ensemble. A set of TV rabbit ears were placed on my head and my robot costume was all complete. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I began to cry bitter tears.
Somehow, Papa in his infinite wisdom convinced me to go to school that day. Walking down the street, I struggled to keep my balance, one hand holding up my rabbit ears, and the other pulling up nonno's heavy work boots.
When I finally arrived at my school contest and surveyed my competition, I was astonished to discover that every girl in school was dressed in gossamer lace and frilly gowns - the image of space Queen "Dale Arden". Each girl sprakled with jewels and frilly lace and each wore her mother's reddest lipstick. All the boys wore carbon copies of Flash Gordon. Obviously, we'd all seen the same movie that week. But nowhere, among the contestants, was there a costume as unique as mine. My homemade get-up captivated the judges. And thanks to my Grandpa's simply made out-fit, I was awarded grand prize for the year's most unique and outstanding costume!! All at once, as I stood there, looking at the other contestants in their glittering, elaborate, wardrobes, I finally got it.
I realized why I had never won first prize before. I'd been trying too hard. My winning costume didn't contain the most exotic materials or jewels, nor did it glitter and shine like a brilliant nova, it was, instead, like my Grandfather, uncomplicated and unpretentious. Today, as I work in my little kitchen putting the finishing touches on an old-fashioned pumpkin pie and prepare for Halloween visitors at my door, I remember my special Grandpa and his uncomplicated, yet beautiful, lifestyle and I'm reminded that the best things, like holidays, food, and even lives, aren't necessarily the most elaborate ones.
