Spooky Soundtrack

Childhood Reflections on Halloween

Yes, I admit it. My favorite holiday is not Christmas, but this spooky season of Halloween.

And I’m not alone. I know people who wish Halloween lasted all year or who just pretend that it does.

Some of the happiest times in my childhood revolved around the October ritual of going to Kmart and picking out a costume from among those terrible vinyl bodysuits with accompanying molded plastic masks. I was so proud as we carried it to the checkout, holding it reverently in my hands as we waited for our turn to pay.

That was always the honeymoon phase with the costume because when Halloween rolled around, if you weren’t careful, you would rip the suit before you even left the house. Then there was the problem of not being able to see or breathe through the mask, not to mention its sharp edges around the eye holes. But once the costume was successfully donned, it was electrifying to be transformed into someone or something else, to be disguised. Then, I had to pray that it wasn’t so unseasonably cold that my mother would make me wear a coat on top of my costume. Casper, the Friendly Ghost, did not wear a coat. He didn’t even wear clothes. What is obvious to children seems to be completely lost on grownups.

Heading out into the twilight with my plastic treat bag felt like a great adventure. My neighborhood was no longer those houses that I saw every day. It was a haunted street where I might meet all kinds of goblins on my candy collecting quest. I remember returning home and sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor in front of the television. I would begin the ceremonial sorting of my candy loot into piles based on what were my absolute favorites (chocolate candy bars without coconut, Smarties, bubblegum), what were second-tier favorites (Starburst, Tootsie Roll Pops), and finally what were rejects to foist on other people (raisin boxes, Mounds bars, Brach’s Peanut Butter Taffy Kisses in the orange and black wrappers). While I did this vital work, Disney’s 1949 animated film The Legend of Sleepy Hollow aired on the television.

Like costume shopping at Kmart, there were other joys that could be enjoyed for weeks leading up to Halloween. The bookshelf in my childhood bedroom held many spooky-themed volumes. Some of my favorites were Gus Was a Friendly Ghost and Witch on a Motorcycle. I also had an anthology of stories that introduced me to Dorrie, a little witch whose black hat was perpetually crooked and whose stockings were always mismatched. Accompanied by her black cat Glink, Dorrie let her extremely curious nature lead her into unintended mischief. I’m not sure if I saw myself in Dorrie or just wished to be more like her.

Dorrie, the little witch (Written and Illustrated by Patricia Coombs)

But the most impactful part for me was what happened in my elementary school music class. My music teacher, Mrs. Wright, went all out for Halloween. I remember waiting in our almost straight line in the hall outside her classroom. We were so excited that our bodies vibrated because we knew that when that door opened a few weeks before Halloween that our cheery place to sing and grab instruments from under our chairs would be transformed into a dark and sinister space. It was both terrifying and thrilling. Dimly lit, every inch of the classroom held cobwebs, bats, and skeletons, but all of that was just backdrop for the centerpiece—a life-size coffin with Count Dracula inside. And because it was a music class, this space’s transformation came with a spooky soundtrack. Emanating from the room’s turntable, the frightening sound effects of creaking doors, ghoulish chuckles, and screams met us, interspersed with excerpts of Camille Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre.

And yet, what has stayed the most fixed in my memory are the songs we sang, my favorite being a spelling song that began, “H-A-double-L-O-W-double-E-N spells Halloween!” Almost five decades later, it still comes to my mind this time of year.

1969 Halloween album

Actually, I often think about this elementary music class that featured so prominently and formatively in my kindergarten through fifth grade years before I, or my teacher, could have known that music would become my life’s work. I’m curious about how the songs I learned have remained so intact in my mind. For example, I can sing all the verses of “There’s a Hole in the Bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza” even when I forget what I’m going to search for by the time the browser window has opened up.

This phenomenon brings to mind the work of the renowned neurologist Dr. Oliver Sacks. In his book, Musicophilia, he outlines remarkable case studies about the power of music. In describing patients diagnosed with dementia, he demonstrates how music is essential in what he calls sustaining “the surviving self.” Sacks explains that music is redundantly wired throughout the brain, which is why it is one of the last pieces of memory to fall away, allowing a person who can no longer recognize their family members to still recall the lyrics of songs from their childhood and therefore still be connected by that thread to who they are.

So, as we approach Halloween this week, I am again thinking about my elementary music teacher. I recognize that in many ways her Halloween-clad classroom was a product of that time. I can’t imagine the frightening decor being acceptable now or maybe even appealing to today’s children who want multimedia, screen-centered stimuli. What I do know is that I can’t find enough words to express my gratitude to her for the joy she brought me and the gifts she passed on. It feels a bit like that film Pay It Forward. A music teacher taught her, then she taught me. And now I have spent 30 years passing on that gift of music, and I’m watching my former students continue to pay it forward.

In recognition of All Hallows Eve being the time when the veil between the earthly and spiritual worlds is the thinnest, may there be a remembered sacredness to all those efforts by the wonderful teachers in our lives.