When I Don't Want Fireworks

A part of me exists that longs for
excitement and adventure---

trips to faraway places and fast-paced cities,

grand opportunities.

But sometimes, the simplest things
make me the happiest.
  

On October 31, I went through the same routine I go through every year on Halloween. I pop my old VHS tape in the VCR (yes, a VHS tape in the VCR) and watch "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" as I began stepping into in an inexpensive costume, mostly thrown together from my closet. I excitedly hop in my car to make the approximately 23-minute drive to my hometown, where I first pull in the horizontal drive of Ms. Margie, the 90-year-old woman who alters my clothes and is the mother to my aunt-by-marriage. It doesn't matter that she really isn't related to me. It feels certain that she is. Since she doesn't drive, I take her the half-mile through town to my Aunt Martha and Uncle Steve's old white house, full of warmth and coziness and memories.

My Aunt Martha, Ms. Margie, and I pull up three chairs on the concrete front porch,  place a bowl full of candy between us, and wait in anticipation for "them" to arrive. We know they will.

And soon the night begins. In such a small town where people feel safe, even families from neighboring counties haul their kids in for a night of trick-or-treating. Parents park in nearby church or playground parking lots and walk through town in droves. Approximately six hundred trick-or-treaters totter up the old, cracked sidewalk to Aunt Martha's front porch, where we hand out candy as we laugh and compliment the assortment of costumes on the happy, little bodies. I love the interactions; I cherish the opportunity to comment to hundreds of eager little kids, "You look so cute!" "Oh my gosh, what is your costume!" "Look how much candy you have!" "I can't believe how much you've grown!" 

My heart begins racing with childlike excitement when I see familiar faces walking up the street---my cousins arriving with their children---and I pull out my camera as I rush to admire whatever character they each arrive as.

The night darkens as the three of us continue sitting on the porch by Aunt Martha's jack-o-lantern---our fingers, toes, and noses growing numb as the cold deepens, despite our layers, jackets, and gloved-hands. The hours creep by as the children begin returning home, and the street grows quiet. Ms. Margie, Aunt Martha, and I head inside. I wiggle my chilled toes inside my boots as we sit at her kitchen table to warm ourselves with a casual meal of soup, hot dogs, chips and a cheeseball with crackers. We chat about how this night was much colder than last year, and we mention how we'll be gathering around this table again in less than a month to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Every detail of this night---the childlike pleasure of dressing up, sitting with my family as we shiver on their cold front porch, talking to happy, little, excited kids, gathering back inside Aunt Martha's cozy house for warmth and food---is something I look forward to all year. Those moments with my aunt, "Granny," and the eager-eyed trick-or-treaters---are moments I treasure.

I drive home noticing the stars and thinking about how such simple, little things often make me the happiest. I like that about myself. And though sometimes I think life has made me hard, I'm thankful I still possess some of the ability I had as a child to appreciate simplicity.

I'm thankful for my grandparents who made even the tiniest activities celebrations---walking down the gravel road to skip rocks on the pond and see the new baby kittens in the barn, splashing in mud puddles or running barefoot through the garden, my granddad picking me bouquets of flowers that grew in the fence row. I'm grateful that my earliest memories of Thanksgiving were in cozy little houses so cramped that my grandma laid a sheet on the floor of the enclosed back porch for us grandkids to use as a table. I'm glad I haven't completely lost the girl inside me who used to go inside the little orange tent in the back yard to write a poem, or take her science book outside at night to look for constellations.

Sometimes I want fireworks and crowds and energy buzzing all around me. But not always. Sometimes I want unelaborate, heart-warming moments with people I care about and the least fancy activities possible.

Most of the time,
just give me 'simple.'