Reflections on a Snowy Halloween

The sweet and the scary.

In the Chicago area, this is the time of year when dark and dreary days prevail.

It is Halloween. And, instead of the usual biting rain and blustery winds we Chicagoans are accustomed to, there is a blanket of white outside. Snow. A surprising amount. And we haven’t even changed the clocks, yet.

As I sip coffee and gaze out the deck doors to our backyard, I am struck by the achingly beautiful, fiery red leaves on our Autumn Blaze maple tree. Crimson dappled with white.

Red and white. Hot and cold. A fitting read on my mental state now, as the holiday season simmers before it’s all-out, full-on encroachment. Before all hell breaks loose.

“Encroachment.” “Hell.” Weird word choices, perhaps, but when it comes to holiday glee and glitz and sharing and caring and spending and wending one’s way through memories both glad and sad, I am torn.

I used to love the holidays. Or, at least I think I did. One’s memories become highly selective over time. Especially when alcohol is involved.

I am not a grinch. I merely…have issues.

In the early days of my marriage, my husband and I were steadfast in observing our “traditions.” Christmas Eve was always spent with my parents, at the house where I group up in a suburb of Chicago.

My Italian mom would go all out. Seafood up the wazoo. Fried Calamari. Baked clams. Several different pasta dishes. And my Jewish dad loved every one of them. They weren’t religious so we pretty much celebrated everything.

These nights before Christmas were boozy, raucous affairs. Sometimes, too raucous. Too boozy. They didn’t always end well. I remember one Christmas Eve in particular, when my husband and I committed the unthinkable: We told my parents we wanted to go home and hang out around our tree. (No Christmas tree at the folks.)

Again, my memory is hazy, and I’m not sure if they were pissed because we wanted to leave before the (much-needed) coffee was served, or some other foolish reason. It was after ten for fuck’s sake and we were tired. We’d been there for hours at this point.

Long, ugly story short. My dad made a shitty comment. Things took off from there and we didn’t speak to my parents for a least a year. One of our many “hiatuses.”

On the other hand, Christmas Day was a breath of fresh air. Spent at my in-laws, there were plenty of libations and delicious eats, but no epithets were hurled, or relationships shattered. I loved those times. I loved my in-laws. My mother and father-in-law treated me like their daughter from Day One. And, as it turns out, I needed that.

They’re gone now, as are my own parents.

The end of November — around Thanksgiving, especially — is where things start to get creepy for me.

It was in that month, that dark, cold, final gasp before Old Man Winter straggled through, when both my parents were diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. Both of them. What are the odds?

It was a death sentence, although it took nine months of chemo and doctor visits and frequent hospital stays and finally, hospice, before they succumbed.

My sister, my hero, had taken them into her home and cared for our parents the whole time.

Less than two months after my parents’ diagnosis, I was undressing one night and, as I stood in front of the mirror admiring my toned torso, I saw something that made my breath catch and the color drain from my face: A lump over my right breast.

I had recently lost a lot of weight from changing my diet and finally getting serious about working out. My body fat was so low, and the lump so close to my skin, that it was visible. I felt like John Hurt in Alien.

Yep. Breast cancer. Caught early, thankfully, so I won’t go into it. I’m telling you these intimate details of my life so you’ll understand why I get hinky this time of year.

Who else starts to get weird around the holidays? Fess up, please, so I don’t feel like I’m alone.

Cyber Monday. Black Friday. Take-it-up-the-ass Wednesday. Son of a bitch. If the holidays weren’t sufficiently commercialized — we have marked-down electronics, and furniture and apparel and Alexa and all other manner of gizmos and gadgets stuffed down our gullets.

Some of us swallow. Others, don’t.

Scary thoughts.

Things have gotten a little rocky around here, as well, since my husband and I spend so much time at home, together. He works from home four days a week and I…well, I’m without gainful employment.

I spend most of my time in our huge finished basement where I’ve set up a cozy little “office space” for myself. My husband works from our home office on the main floor, so there are days when we barely speak to one another until it’s time to have the “dinner discussion.”

What happened to us? I don’t know. We’ve been married a long time. Is this how love…goes? I hope not. I can’t fathom it.

Scary thoughts.

This Halloween, I bought candy for the kids who rarely show up at our door. We usually get less than a handful of trick-or-treaters. It’s not like I turn off the lights and pull the curtains (although I have in the past). Maybe kids don’t trick or treat that much these days? I couldn’t say.

When I was a kid, Halloween was a big deal. My dad was into it in a major way. He’d drive my (now estranged) brother and I around the neighborhood. Just us two as my sister was too young at the time.

From block to block, we’d go. Thanks to our dad, we covered a lot of freakin’ ground and came home with our buckets overflowing with candy. I hid a lot of it under my bed and did my best to make it last.

That was around the time my OCD started to make itself known. I had a candy hoard, but an organized one. All the candies of a certain type grouped together. Fun-size Snickers. Tootsie Roll Pops. Those chewy peanut butter things which I still love to this day.

Sweet thoughts.

Without our parents around, for good or bad, the holiday season isn’t what it was. My sister, bless her, usually hosts Thanksgiving. On the occasions when she goes to her in-laws, my husband and I spend the holiday at home. Just us and our three cats.

I’ll roast a turkey and make the old-school bread stuffing from scratch which . my husband loves, even while I admonish him for eating too much of it.

Maybe this year I’ll shut my mouth and just be sweet.

And for Christmas? I’m not sure what we’ll be doing but I’m going to do my damndest to just shut out the noise and try to enjoy the season. The smell of pine. The warmth of our fireplace. The fun of watching our kitties chase rolled up pieces of holiday gift wrap.

The fact that we’re still together and whole.

How about you?

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

Thanks for reading. Would love your thoughts on the holiday season. Please feel free to spew in the comments section! And, if you like this story, I’d appreciate your checking out the following: