Sweat & Sparkle

When the kids were little, my husband and I took them to the state fair every fall. I have so many pictures and memories of the lights, the sounds, the smells, of standing in line with excited and impatient little ones, of waving to tiny blonde heads as they spun and flipped and turned on rides, searching to see if we were watching.

Last weekend, we took the kids to the fair again. All four kids are adults now, so we walk right past the kiddie rides and the fun house. But I can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia as we do, because I remember stopping at each one, waiting with my husband, holding the kids’ hard-won toys or drink cups and other prizes, juggling everything to find a free hand to take pictures of them on those rides or skipping through the fun house. Was it really that long ago? Doesn’t seem like it.

Last night was a value night at the fair, practically free to get in and to ride, so my husband and I went back, just the two of us. We strolled through the displays from 4-H, the marketplace, the sewing and photography contests, things the kids rush past on their way to cotton candy, deep-fried goodness, and rides.

We sat down to split a funnel cake, and I found myself saying, “Want to buy a few ride tickets?”

My husband looked surprised. I get motion sickness pretty quickly, so it’s unusual for me to suggest hopping on the rides. Blame it on sentimentality, remembering the fair when the kids were little, or running around the fair with my brothers much longer ago, fearlessly leaping onto anything that spun or whirled or turned upside down.

We bought some tickets, then headed for the rides like we were doing something so wild and crazy. We shrieked, laughed, ran into each other, and climbed out of ride cars swearing we were never doing that again, only to get into another line and do it again anyway.

I took a photo with him while we waited for one of the rides to start. His hat was backwards, my hair was messed up, our faces were shiny from the humid southern night. It was not a glamorous photo by any means. But in that photo, we are both smiling and laughing, and we are infectiously happy, waiting for that ride to swing us around and crash us into each other, like we were kids ourselves again.

One ride spun us in so many dizzying, rapid-fire circles that I could barely get out of my seat when it was over, and I held onto my husband’s arm as we struggled for steady ground again. We had to sit down for a bit, both of us moaning that we were going to throw up.

So was it a bad idea after all? Not even a little bit. The fair had some of my favorite rides from when I was little. It was a thrill to get onto those same rides with my husband, to laugh and scream and hold onto each other and forget everything in the whole world except that moment, just us. I can’t handle the rides quite like I did when I was young and indestructible, but feeling seasick was worth it anyway. We had fun.

We got to bed much too late last night, and it was agonizing to get up for work this morning. We held onto each other until the last possible minute, hitting snooze again and again.

I find myself still thinking about the rides last night, and how maybe next year we should get the arm band for unlimited rides, and how I very much enjoyed turning back the clock and being silly kids again with him for the night. We should–and will–do it more often!

No doubt, much of my excitement about Halloween is remembering trick-or-treating as a kid. My brothers and I had those flimsy, 70s-style plastic costumes with the suffocating mask that blocked all airways and most vision as well, but to us, they were awesome. You couldn’t tell us otherwise.

I grew up in the north, and I remember arguing (futilely, I must add) with my mother about having to put my coat on over my costume. Yeah, sure, it’s 40 degrees once the sun goes down, but how is everyone going to see my amazing plastic Wonder Woman costume with my fuzzy, faux-fur coat covering it? (I mentioned this was the 70s, right?)

We walked door to door, excitedly waiting to see what candy each neighbor would have for us, while my mom waited at the end of the driveway to make sure none of us got kidnapped, or worse, forgot to say “Thank you”. We had plastic drawstring candy bags with Halloween scenes printed on them, but I can’t remember now where my mom got them. They just sort of materialized in time for Halloween, like our costumes, in that cardboard box with the mask positioned on top, peeking through the thin clear cover.

I woke up this morning, just as excited for Halloween as I did all those years ago. My husband and I have a huge bag of candy on the counter, waiting for trick-or-treaters to ring our doorbell tonight. We have skeletons and tombstones and pumpkins in the yard, and we have porch lights that flicker like candles, all waiting to greet little faces in costumes a bit more fancy than what my brothers and I had…but let’s face it, still not nearly as cool!

Halloween, the way it was was when we were growing up, was simply perfect. Door to door, walking through the night, approaching each brightly-lit porch, comparing candy later, swapping with my brothers, learning early that peanut butter cups are the candy of the gods.

I see trunk-or-treating today, and it’s a big hell no for me. It’s not the same. Not even close. It takes so much away from the full Halloween experience, cheapens it. Ruins it. No thanks.

I hope all of the trick-or-treaters tonight have that delightful anticipation as they approach our front door, as they hurry past the decorations and fix their mask right before they press the doorbell button. I hope they sneak a peek at the candy we drop into their bag, and that they think to themselves, “Score!” because they found a house with the good candy. I hope years from now, they look back on their trick-or-treating days and still get excited for Halloween, just like my husband and I still do.