Our war is in its sixth year. To be honest, he doesn’t even know about our little feud, which is less war and more burning desire on my part that a tornado will set down on his yard and remove every strip of yellow caution tape, enormous furry spider, animated headless object and bubbling cauldron.
It’s not that I want to win the award for best Halloween décor. Frankly, I really don’t want to spend hours draping cotton cobwebs over shrubbery and between tree branches. Or assemble miles of extension cords just so pumpkins will grin from the doorstep in the night. Only to take it down three weeks later.
But I live in one of those neighborhoods. You know. The ones filled with families. Families with Dads that like to decorate. Or that have wives who make them do it. And there’s always one house in that trumps the rest. At Halloween, it’s Steve’s house.
(I’m 98% sure Steve is his name because my husband once said it was. But because alliteration sounds fun, we’re going with Steve. Even if there is a 2% chance his name might be something else. Like Joe. Or Zeke.)
Steve is the reason that my kids grade our house each year on a sliding scale that goes from putrid to petrifying. He doesn’t just deck the spooky halls spectacularly. He actually becomes part of the grim landscape, jumping out to add the final touch of terror while the neighborhood kids shriek in fear. So when Steve starts wrapping his trees in caution tape, I don’t hear maniacal screams from his little yard of horrors. I hear …
“Why can’t you decorate our house better? And make it more … you know … Halloween-ish.”
Which is why I am wrestling with the landscape. A heavy ladder. Two new gargoyles. A sparkly web. Another spider. A ladder. An assortment of pumpkins. Extension cords. Choking down the insect that just rocketed past my uvula, I step back and evaluate.
He can have October. But when December rolls around? It’s on. Like Donkey Kong.
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