When we were kids, my sister and I rummaged through our closet and put together Halloween outfits from our regular clothes. Sometimes we used hats and belts and strings of beads from Momma’s closet. Or we made accessories from construction paper and grocery sacks. That was how Halloween worked before Party City and Wal-Mart and twenty-four hour on-line shopping. Other than plastic masks at Sterling’s, there were no elaborate costume choices.

In first grade, Momma got creative and sewed handmade costumes. The scariest thing about my witch costume was the heavy-handed eyebrow makeup. My sister/cat rode along on my broom and stole the show. As usual.

One year I was a free-spirited gypsy with flowing purple skirt and jangly jewelry. Since Mammaw Tate sold Avon to the mysterious clan of gypsies who periodically lived on the edge of Osceola, I knew exactly how they dressed.

Another year I was a hobo. This was a simple (lazy) look requiring only my too-short jeans and a kerchief tied to a stick that fell from the cottonwood tree in the back yard. 

The year I went as a Mexican, I won second place in the Keiser Halloween mini-parade. This costume was one of my favorites repeated several years in a row the way today’s little princesses rock the pink tutu and sparkly crown year after year after year. For this costume I donned a real sombrero and draped a colorful woven blanket over my shoulders. And as the final touch, I carried Momma’s ukulele and sang Aihh-yi-yi-yi in my best Ricky Ricardo voice.

Yes, Momma plays the ukulele. Sorta.

In no way was this Halloween costume meant to be a politically incorrect slam. I was in complete awe of the farm labor who came from South Texas each summer to chop cotton. They traveled to Arkansas in a large convoy, with the entire extended family in tow.

While on our farm, they cooked platters of tamales wrapped in corn husks and sweets made from caramelized sugar. They brought giant bags of juicy grapefruits and sweet onions from The Valley, a magical Neverland near the Rio Grande. I longed to see it…someday…

When their work was done and our fields were free of Johnsongrass, they packed up and traveled to Michigan for new adventures picking tomatoes. The Mexicans worked and played and journeyed as one cohesive group and were not forced to sit in one flat delta field for all of eternity.

They were as free-spirited as those gypsies on the edge of town.

I wanted to be a Mexican when I grew up. Until, of course, that summer Daddy made us chop cotton with them…

That’s a whole other story.

What was your favorite childhood costume?

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

P.S. Somewhere buried in the BAT CAVE lies a picture of me in my Mexican costume. When I find it, I will share… (If you are unfamiliar with the Bat Cave, click HERE.)

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