Boo.

Halloween used to be my favourite holiday. It was my one chance to dress up like a beautiful and sparkly (insert over-clichéd childish dream); the one time out of the year I could beg—and eat—all the candy I wanted with no thought of negative consequences. Halloween was almost better than Christmas for me. I truly looked forward to it every year.

Then one year…all of that changed. It was a tradition in our extended family to do our separate trick-or-treating, then head over to the neighborhood Halloween party, and eventually meet up with all our cousins at my grandma’s house down the street. My Grandpa would have prepared a pot of beans (why he chose beans I may never know, but man…were they ever good) for everyone to eat, and that was only if we had room leftover after hoarding Grandma’s stash intended for the neighbor kids.

This time, though, as my sister and I approached the front door of Grandma’s house, something seemed different. Where the door would normally be swung wide open, inviting all to enter, it was unwelcomingly closed. Usually we would be able to hear the raucous laughter of my uncles telling the latest jokes, or my granddad joining in the chaos with his booming, trademark voice—but this year, the lights were off in the house, and all was quiet. Even the jack-o-lanterns, who were glowing with the customary light of candles, seemed to droop and frown. All was not well at Grandma’s house.

Here I am around the time of the dreaded day--in the foreground {my favourite place to be, evidently}. Adell is squished in the back, wearing the gray T-shirt. Don't we look innocent and unassuming? Totally unaware of any bad in the world...

Nevertheless, we two girls approached the entry, foolishly—as two young girls are wont to be—assuming the best. Never considering foul play. Naïve along with the best of ‘em, that’s how we were.

Suddenly, as we took our last step to reach and turn the doorknob, we heard a heart-stopping wail.

“Waaaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhhh…waaaaaaaaa…uhhhhhhhh…”

The pitch was piercing, oscillating between two notes of an interval I never knew existed. It sent shivers through my spine, and I knew it was the last noise I would ever hear, for I would soon be dead—murdered by the boogeyman before I ever got to tell Daniel Wilsford of my true love for him, and that was that.

“Run, Adell!” I screamed, for—though I was the younger sister—I always worried for her presence of mind during frightful situations. If one of us should die, I was the best for the job. {I’ve always made a very good martyr, you see. It’s my gift.}

We ran. Both she and I screamed blood-clotting screams of terror, our eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the horror disappear (though running with our eyes closed did substantially hinder our progress of escaping immediate danger).

Tripping over our fairy princess shoelaces, we didn’t make it far before we collapsed in the grass of Grandma’s front yard, damp from our own sweat along with the early-evening dew that was just beginning to form. We panted our pathetic breaths, having skipped out of P.E. often enough to know we were--neither of us--cut out for such exertion. We were doomed.

The pause gave us time to breathe, and during the break we realized the noise of terror emitting from the portico had faded into that of…humour? Humour indeed. Looking back from whence we’d shortly escaped with our lives, we saw the lights had been turned on, the front door opened, and all our long-lost relatives laughing from the entry. Jubilantly. They’d gotten us—the snot-nosed little girls who were always reading books (in Adell’s case) and beheading chickens (in my own).

A practical joke had been played, and we were the butts. I’m always the butt.

And who was the major culprit, you ask? Who was to blame for the wail of fright (and “fright” is putting it mildly)?

A battery-operated ghost hanging from the eaves of Grandma’s front porch. Of course. She’d unearthed them from the bottom of a bin at Pick ‘n Save™ the year before, at the after-Halloween markdown sale for what was no doubt “a steal.” It had a sensor—a sensor!—which detected the movement of any innocent passerby, at which signal it would flatly freak people out. This technology was ahead of its time during the mid-90s, and I had never imagined anything so horrifying. I can hear the wails to this day—probably because they are still common decorations among my relatives—and they frighten me…to…this…day.

Adell and I have gone on to live {fairly} normal and well-adjusted lives, despite the turmoil of our youth.

Strangely enough, however, I’ve never felt the Halloween fervor since then. I’ll buy my own candy, thankyouverymuch.

Happy Halloween, from everyone (all two of us) here at Archives of Our Lives.

Boo.

You Mean I'm Not Perfect??

As old as I keep getting, I never really seem to learn anything.

Why do I spout off hurtful vendettas without thinking things through first? I don't know, really. There are two sides to every story (sometimes three or four, if you're CSI: Miami), but I am the tunnel vision kind of girl who only sees my own misfortunes. Quite the victim, aren't I?

Tunnel vision kind of girl. That's the point, really. I'm still quite a little girl. It's true--I don't feel like a grown up at all, most days. I go on and on about how disappointed I am in people--in the state of the world these days. Yet sometimes, when I step back and look at my own life, I realise I'm quite the biggest disappointment of all.

It's all very distressing. I mean, think of it: imagine if you lived your life all day every day, thinking you knew exactly what people are going through and what they should do to fix themselves, and the whole world has major problems, and people just need to get over it. Then imagine that one evening as you're flossing your teeth (which everyone ought to be doing), it is called to your attention that maybe--just maybe--you might have some issues of your own. Maybe you're a big jerk when all is said and done...maybe you're all talk. Maybe you're 21 years old and still acting like a child.

Maybe you're too harsh on the seemingly incompetent clerks at the homogenise-the-world chain stores who wear blue vests with yellow smiley-faced pins; maybe they have lives and hate their jobs and don't really care whether or not you can't find strike-anywhere matches (which are not by the barbecue supplies, just for the record). Maybe people with children aren't the enemy, and they aren't judging you for not wanting any of your own. Maybe old ladies at church don't think they're being crotchety at all, and Becca Flunt* truly did think you stole her graphing calculator. Maybe the sky isn't intentionally pouring down powdery white stuff just to get even with you.

Maybe all the mean comments "anonymous" makes on your blog is exactly right: Maybe "anonymous" is much more clever than yourself.

And think what a shock it is to the system--to go from so right to totally, undeniably wrong.

I don't know quite what to make of it, actually.

{Learning}

Here's something people might not guess about me: I was wild in my youth.

Not wild wild. I never had any desire to drink or do drugs (though there was a phase during my teenagehood that I considered planting a pack of cigarettes in my bedroom just so my parents would think I was wayward, thus making anything "bad" I did afterwards not seem so bad after all. [I never did follow through with that notion. I guess it wasn't such a great idea. They probably would have shipped me off to Dr. Phil's boot camp]).

No, my wildness was fairly mild. [That's right--I was a mild wild child.] Basically I was just...off the walls. Hyper. Enthusiastic. Passionate. Enigmatic. Psycho.

Adults hated me, essentially.

If I--as an adult--had known me then, I would have hated me. I mean, just look at me:


I was the girl who made even the most stalwart primary teachers beg to be released (there's a true story to back me up on that one). Every time I run into someone who used to be in our ward, I cringe--they always start out saying, "You're Camille? Camille Strate? Man...I remember when..."

I was the Marky Davis of the Maricopa Stake.

As most hyper, enthusiastic, psychotic children do, I got in trouble a lot. Most of the time, "getting into trouble" was no big deal. I'd get sent to my room. I liked my room. It gave me time to think about what I'd done and look at my rock collection. [I named my rocks. (Like I said: psycho.)] But occasionally, I would get in trouble and it would really stick. I knew I'd crossed the line. I knew I was busted. And I hated it.

Like the time I was shimmying up the palm trees at Lincoln Elementary and Ms. Hinshaw, the P.E. teacher, came out and gave me 3-day detention. I guess climbling trees wasn't allowed--unfortunate, since I had such a knack for scaling tall edifices.

And the time I got my good friend's bike stolen. Oh boy, was that bad.

And the time I skipped Mr. Buck's Junior AP U.S. History class to addend a boy's volleyball tournament--which Mr. Buck just happened to attend, also. That was a big-time bust. (Though I distinctly remember getting in less trouble than Sadie Babbott*, who did the same thing and lied about it. At least B and I told the truth...) But it was nevertheless bad.

There have been more recent escapades, too. Right after high school graduation, for example, I went to England with my good friend and got into a nice heated debate with the bobbies. We'd been misbehaving, naturally. I was so ashamed of myself.

I still get in trouble occasionally; only as an adult, I can't simply go to my room. As an adult, "going to my room" would mean I'm just running away from confrontation. I suppose part of being an adult is 1) not getting into trouble anymore, and 2) owning up to it if I do.

I got in trouble recently, and it was bad. I could feel the confrontation brewing just like granny can feel a storm coming on; I could feel it in my bones. And in my blood pressure. My heart beats faster. My hands shake. My eyes dart about the premises, frantically searching for the nearest escape--anywhere but "here" will do. That is me in the face of confrontation.

I am such a little girl. 21 years old, and I might as well be a toddler, for all the "growing up" I've done.

These kinds of realisations are most unpleasant... When I was a little kid, "saying sorry" was such a good solution--the natural solution--to all of my tight spots. It worked every time. My question now is...am I past that? Is there anything that we adults are supposed to do differently--anything more sincere than "sorry?" And if so, why don't they teach a class on that in high school? It would have been substantially more valuable than most of the other blather I sat through...

*Names have been changed for privacy's sake*