helloween

"I Can't Seem To Scare My Grandkids!

I was sure the bat would send them over the edge. It is hairy and huge and horrifying. It has giant white fangs, an eight-foot wing span and menacing "I’m-gonna-get-you-then-devour-you-alive" flashing red eyes.

I hung it in the archway between the dining room and the living room, directly behind the hollow-faced, green-haired witch who sits like an evil queen at the head of the table with her gnarly "I’m-gonna-strangle-you hands" hugging the crystal ball in front of her.

The scene was set. All that was needed were the children.

My granddaughter, Lucy, who is 6, was the first to arrive. She hop-skipped in one day last week, gaped at this elaborate sight, laughed out loud, then proceeded into the family room to watch Finding Nemo. Adam, a year younger, strolled into the room, looked around and said, "Wow! That's awesome, Mimi. How'd you get the bat to hang like that?" Finally Charlotte, who is only 2, stood transfixed for a half a second, then grinned and said, "Giant bat. Red eyes. Fun-ny!" And then she raced toward the scary creature, not away from it.

Granted, all through my house there are gaggles of witches and ghouls and black cats and skeletons and spiders. But these are all benign creatures, happy, smiling, Casper the Ghost-like things.

The dining room is hard-core, take your breath away, I do believe in spooks, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do! Yet not one of my grandchildren even winced.

No Big Deal?

When my own kids were small, they'd have been under a bed in a flash. But not these children. I sing a monster song that terrified their mothers, "Don't sing it! Don't sing it!" my girls used to beg. But my grandchildren chime, "Sing it again, Mimi. Sing it again!"

Picture from the past: Beverly in her witch costume

Every October I dig out and hang on a wall an old picture of me dressed up as a witch. In it, I look very, very scary — black teeth, lines all over my face, eyes that make you want to run away. I was so frightening that my youngest daughter would run and hide, even though she watched me paint my face green and and put on a wig, even though she witnessed my transformation. I cackled and she cried. I said, "Would you like a bite of my poison apple" and she was so traumatized that she wouldn't go near even applesauce for three months.

But my grandchildren? They shrug. "Can you believe that's me?" I ask expecting wide eyes and dropped jaws. But I always get the same response, which is absolutely no response. Can they believe? Yes! Mimi gets dressed up like a witch. To them a witch is no big deal.

We watched Snow White the other day, the newly remastered digitized version, which is clear and crisp and colorful but really, really frightening. The wicked queen sends a huntsman after Snow White's heart. Literally. Her actual heart. Cut it out and bring it back to me, she tells him. He lures Snow White into the woods and raises his knife to kill her, but he can't. He falls to the ground sobbing and tells Snow White she must run away. She runs through the forest, which just a few scenes before was all tra-la-la happy, the birds and the rabbits and Snow White all singing. But now, in her hour of need, the forest turns against her. Trees grab at her and fallen branches trip her and all the animals chase her and the woods are dark and wild and I sat there waiting for someone to lose it, to run to me sobbing, to shriek, to howl, to at least blanch.

But nobody did. It was, "Do you have any yogurt, Mimi?" And "May I have a cookie, please."

Last Chance To Spook

Yesterday, at a craft store, I saw "a scariest thing in the world" designed for the outdoors, perfect to put by the front door: a six-foot tall, ugly, creepy ghoul. You touch its arm and it snarls and threatens. You walk by it and it comes to life!

There was no price tag on this thing and no one knew how much it cost because the manager had gone for the day. I left my name. I have my fingers crossed that it doesn't cost more than I want to pay because I think that at last I have found something that will make my grandchildren squirm.