Joyce OreHalloween time for creativity, imagination


Jack-o’-lanterns with evil grins and wicked glints in their flickering eyes pay tribute to their clever knife-wielding creators. Homeowners turn front yards into creepy cemeteries with ghosts lurking behind headstones and living rooms into places where Dracula would feel comfortable on the web-covered couch.

Pint-sized and full-grown spooks come to the door dressed as witches, cartoon characters, political figures, smartphones and bunnies, often with the inspired help of the House of Mother.

When it comes to Halloween, I suffer from the gypsy syndrome, a disease passed down through the generations from mother to daughter. My family has been putting gypsy costumes together for so long that we are recognized as authorities.

My interest in gypsies began when I was 4 years old and told my mother I wanted to be a princess for Halloween. “Fine,” she said, and handed me a full black skirt, a paisley blouse, printed scarf, one gold earring and a box of red rouge. “Be a princess gypsy.”

The next year I wanted to be a gypsy queen.

“Fine,” she said, and handed me a full black skirt, a paisley blouse, printed scarf, one gold earring and a box of red rouge.

In the ensuing years, I let my imagination run wild. I was a gypsy fairy, a gypsy cat, a gypsy cowgirl, a gypsy devil and even a gypsy bum, all while wearing the full black skirt, paisley blouse, printed scarf, one gold earring and red rouge.

On our wedding day, my mother handed me a package wrapped in orange and black paper. In it was the full black skirt, the paisley blouse, printed scarf, one gold earring and an empty box of red rouge.

“In case you need it some day,” she said with a tear in her eye.

A few years later, our first daughter wanted to be E.T. I opened the package.

Just as the helpless victim knows he will turn into a werewolf when the moon is full, females in my family know they will turn into gypsies on the night the witches dance.



Copyright © 2014