Tuesday, November 12, 2013

There's A Dead Body in the Trunk or Treat



“Hey, Momma, I’ve been practicin’ my manners for trick-or-treating! Wanna hear it?” 

Why, of course I do! The best manners I’ve heard in our house lately is when the boys apologized to their little sister for falling on her head while farting on her, instead of hovering over her nose as planned. I almost teared up…and they say chivalry’s dead!

“Trick-or-treat, smell my feet, gimme something good to eat. If you won’t, that’s okay, I’ll say thank you anyway.” 

“Well….um….Rae-rae, you’re doing real good using your purty words, but trick-or-treating is kind-of a no-no these days." It used to be okay, but now people think you don’t love God if you get a hankerin’ for some Tootsie Roll Pops.

Y’all, when your kid’s bottom lip starts quivering, you’ll do anything to make it stop. Yes, honey, you can sleep in your daddy’s tree stand with a monkey tonight if you’ll just quit the lip thing…you know I can’t take that.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he couldn’t do anything to participate in Halloween, so I made him a deal.

“Baby boy, we’ll get you some candy, I promise. How about if we go to the Trunk-or-Treat at the church up the road? I think they give out candy there, and it’s probably a lot safer than going to stranger’s houses. It’s Friday, so y’all can have a movie night and eat some of your candy when we get home, 'kay?“ And, while he wasn’t thrilled, he put the whimper in his wallet, tucked tail and ran off to get dressed.  Phew, crisis avoided.

Later that evening, me and the kids pull up to this huge, non-denominational church that’s just up the road from our house. Hmmm…this is the “good” Halloween celebration, right? Just making sure ‘cuz the mixed signals are so thick I’m gonna have to flip on Bessie’s hazards.

By the time we get to a parking place, I’ve barely missed runnin’ over James, Peter, John, doubting Thomas, the Four My-Little-Ponies of the Apocalypse, and some angry little Missionary McNugget wearing a hounds tooth fedora, screaming “there’s 18 inches between heaven and hell:  your head and your heart, your heart and your head,” and this is before we ever hit the back lot.

On the left side of the lot, you’ve got the Dunkin’ Booth, where you and a good knuckle ball can wash away Brother Ralph’s sins, one dip at a time. Nope, not for the kiddos. That whole incident last Memorial Day with Paw-Paw’s Hoveround, the inflatable cooler, and the rather uncouth 911 operator greatly diminished our dunking spirit.

“Momma, momma! Can we go buy a cake? OH! Cupcakes!”  Honey, have you ever known Momma to say no to cupcakes? I didn’t think so.

My little buddy pulls a dollar out of his ninja britches, and hands it to Priscilla Persimmon, who is apparently hiding Fort Knox’s bounty in that little metal box.

“Can we get a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles, please?” 

“No, you have to win one. We can’t sell them.”

“Well, ma’am, could we donate five or ten bucks and take a dozen home?”

“No, I’m sorry, we can’t do that. This is a fundraiser.”

Rae-rae is completely and utterly confused by now. I know, son, I know. They’re trying to raise money, so they won’t take yours. You’ll understand one day. Or if my day of revelation comes first, I’ll explain it to you.

“Momma, can I please get a chocolate one? They look really good!” I may be a visitor at this festival, but I’m about to get red up in here. Trying to keep my cool, I go at her one more time. 

“Ma’am, we would really like to take home a cake…some cupcakes….a pie…..cookies….anything that you would be willing to sell us.”

“Well, ma’am, the Bible says that it angered Jesus when sinners conducted business in the temple. We surely couldn’t do such a thing.”

Houston, we have a  problem, and she’s driving a big ‘ole truck. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

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