You never know what might cause consternation around here.
This week there is abject despair because I won’t be manning the door on Halloween. I’ll be teaching body sculpting on Thursday, so Catherine must step up to the plate.
Somehow, this is a big deal. Not quite a problem, but a reason to opine, as in, “I can’t believe you won’t be here to answer the door” and “I can’t believe I have to answer the door.”
It’s not as if she’s planning to trick or treat. After all, the job involves opening the door, cooing over some costumes and offering the big bowl of sugar. Nothing more.
Still, I guess some traditions are hard to break.
Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy my annual check of the tykes in the neighborhood. I love to see the costumes and how the littlest ghouls manage their first or second spooky outings.
There’s always a cute lady bug or sheep among the passels of pumpkins and fairies. Always a handful of kids who must be prompted to say “thank you”; always one or two who spend a loooong time choosing their candy, or treat the candy bowl as a smorgasbord, trying to take piece after piece to secret away in their goodie bags.
One year, I opened the door to Thomas the Tank engine and he chugged right past me, and headed for the living room!
I will miss it, for sure, and promise to happily resume my appointed post after class.
That is, if Catherine and Basil haven’t cleaned the candy bowl by then.