The Full Sized Memory House

Today is one of my favorite sort of days. The sun is highlighting the colors on all the trees, while the breeze plays the leaves like a harp. I pull my nostalgia close like a jacket and revel in feeling the crispness blowing across my exposed face.

More than anything, autumn pulls at my memory strings.

I have a playlist I've built specifically to fit this happy, almost tear inducing feeling I get on these days. The song above sort of fits the tone of most of playlist. It's bittersweet, terribly sad I can't relive moments of my past, but happy knowing that there will be many more memories to come.

I remember going trick-or-treating, dressed as a Wolf-man in 1991. I wore an old Universal monster mask and mittens that my mom glued fake nails and fur to. I went out with a good hockey buddy of mine, Jason, who ironically dressed as Jason from Friday the 13th and our ginger-headed buddy Nick, who went as a ninja.

We were allowed to run around the neighborhood for three hours, unsupervised, filling pillow cases with what felt like thirty pounds of candy slung over our small shoulders like Santa and his presents.

This film plays in my mind where we are laughing and I have this overwhelming feeling of happiness and never-ending energy. This memory begins after being handed a full sized bag of Skittles at this house tucked away in a court. It was the only house with a light on and we almost skipped it, but we pressed on.

And although I don't remember the person that handed the candy out to me, it was one of those virgin moments of pure happiness that caused a synapse to fire off in my brain, filed away as a permanent memory.

It's such a powerful recollection that I can still sense the smell of cooking meat as we rounded the street where the school janitor had his giant barrel grill, cooking burgers, hot dogs, and popcorn for the entire neighborhood. Everyone was happy to stand around his gruesome scene complete with cop car and fridge filled with fake body parts and blood.

It was a sense of community I don't know that I will ever reclaim.

Sal and I handed out full sized candy bars last night. It was a deliberate decision to be "that house."

I hope that the kids who came to our house last night remember the year they ran around in the pouring rain, filling their plastic grocery bags, and smearing chocolate on their princess costumes.

I hope that we will be a faceless couple who lived in an almost description-less brick house that those kids recall to their children. I hope that every time the crisp fall air blows oxygen into the embers of their memories of Halloween, that they smile.