These stories are from three years of dressing up as a scarecrow. The stories are my favorite from Halloween.
Our good friends from Church opened their lives to many foreign exchange students over the years. A young woman from Germany became family for all of us since our daughters are BFFs. She liked basketball and practice ended at seven. Mitch, her American dad, brought her to the party around seven-thirty so she could experience Halloween. He pulled into the drive of the pastor’s house to drop her off, stopping just three feet from where I sat dressed as a scarecrow. She exited the vehicle and came around the front so he could back out into the street.
As she passed in the narrow gap between me and the car, my oversized hand strikes out at her like a rattlesnake. She sprung upward like Michael Jordan-type leap from the lighting-like movement from the inanimate object in the corner of her vision. She didn’t scream but the fright showed on her face. I tried to hug her but she had nothing to do with it at the moment. I did get a hug later in the evening to make up for it. Her claim was it didn’t frighten her that much. Mitch announced, “I saw your shoes rise up over the hood height.”
My most memorable scare was three boys around fifteen years old. They ran from house to house in their spur-of-the-moment costumes. Again, because fifteen families gathered for Trick-or-Treating there was a long pause to gather much candy. As they were leaving, I heard the boys discussing the scary scarecrow. The leader and most boisterous proclaimed, “I will touch it,” with much confidence in his voice.
I waited until he was just three feet from me when a lightning-like stir came from every muscle on my body. The legs of the young man failed him and he hit the ground with his knees buckling at the abrupt movement. He sprang to his feet and lit off down the road leaving the night’s booty behind. Then I saw his two friends nearly collapsing from laughter. “I saw you scaring people earlier,” one cries through fits of laughter. The two boys pick up the missing boy’s candy and promise me to return it to him.
Did I mention, my dog is a Karen? On Sunday mornings, I make pancakes for the family. Some milk-egg mixture spills on the floor as I pour into the dry ingredients. A dollop of about four inches round remained on the floor. Normally, our resident floor cleaner waits underfoot for something to spill, but not this morning. While letting the batter rest on the counter, I go to retrieve our dog. “You need to come with me and clean up a spill.”
With her usual Karen attitude, “Don’t tell me what to do” expresses all over her face.
“Its eggs and milk spilled on the floor” as I walk out of the room.
The Karen refuses to move since it is not her idea. Mom rises up and coaches her before she moves. Sauntering into the kitchen, I point to the mess and she licks up in a matter of seconds.
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