Four Score and Seven Years Ago…

I was shaving my legs and repeating the words to The Gettysburg Address when I was reminded of the Halloween costume I hated wearing when I was a little girl

I remember when I was seven years old and all I wanted to be was Cinderella for Halloween. The costumes back in the day were cheap, and nothing like the costumes you can buy today.  They were meant for one-time wearing; disposable. They’re useless after a class party, a neighborhood get-together, and roaming the streets for hours begging for candy on Halloween night.

I’d been bugging my stepmother, Freda, for weeks about “my” Cinderella costume.  I was a week away from my first trick-or-treating of the season and being Cinderella was all I could think about.

“They have them for sale on the corner by the little market for $2.00. Please? Please let me be Cinderella for Halloween,” I begged.  “And don’t forget to buy it before Trick-or-Treating with the Brownies next week, okay? Okay?”

Yeah, I was a demanding thing back in the day. But you have to understand… Freda was the wicked stepmother from Hell. She’s the woman that made me eat her icky stew every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner when I refused to eat any the first night she cooked it. This went on for days. Days, I tell you.  -Yeah, I’m stubborn, too. I get that from my father - So I might have been demanding in my quest to be Cinderella, but I deserved to be Cinderella.  Honestly, I don’t know why I deserved to be Cinderella, but to make the story seem more dramatic I’m going to say I deserved to be Cinderella so you can all gasp in horror when you read what Freda made me wear for Halloween that year.

A full day had passed, and then two… still, no costume.

Friday came and went… still, no costume.

The weekend ended and the following Tuesday I was off to school in my Brownie uniform with no costume for the afternoon activity. I still had no idea if Freda was going to buy me the Cinderella costume that I’d been begging her for. And I began to worry that people were going to laugh at me if I didn’t have a costume for the activity.

Lunch came and went… still, no costume.

After classes ended I took the school bus with my Brownie troop to Betty’s house… and still, no costume.

Seriously disappointed and on the verge of tears, Betty’s mom made a phone call to Freda. When she put me on the phone I told her once again about the Cinderella costume. I rambled through the particulars… where she could find it, how much it would cost, and before we hung up she promised she’d be right over.

We waited and waited, and waited some more. Then finally, Freda arrived.

I bolted out of the house and headed for the car, tripping on the gravel and skinning my knee.  But I didn’t give the injury much concern. All I cared about was that damn costume.  I’d been waiting weeks for this moment and I wasn’t about to whimper over some torn flesh and a little blood.

I skidded to a stop in front of the driver side window and eagerly waited for Freda to hand me the paper sack containing my costume. I couldn’t wait to get inside and put on my Cinderella dress.  Seriously, I was almost as excited as the day we attended a new church and I found out we could eat donuts and drink chocolate milk when the services were over. Hey, don’t laugh… I love donuts, and I was giddy with happiness; practically drooling from excitement.  That’s the same excitement I had as I stood outside the car waiting for Freda to hand me that paper sack.

But Freda didn’t have a paper sack to give me. Nope. Freda had a costume sitting on the front passenger seat of the car. And it wasn’t a Cinderella outfit. 

Listening to the motor of the electric window wind down, I stood in horror as I watched Freda pick up an item from the front passenger seat and prepare to hand it to me.  I remember the smile fading from my face and the color draining at a rapid rate… my lower lip began to quiver.  I had beads of sweat forming on my forehead and I took a step back from the car in an attempt to prevent this next moment from happening. 

“No. No. No. No. No. No. No,” I said, as Freda handed me a black top hat that had been made from black poster board. The middle tube section had been closed together with scotch tape, and the rim of the hat had been secured with Elmer’s Glue that looked to be still drying. 

But that wasn’t all she had for me.  After making me place this… thing… on my head she shoved something in my hand. It was… a beard.  It was a beard made from black yarn that had been cut into two inch long pieces and tied to another piece of string.

Did you read that?

IT WAS A BEARD MADE FROM BLACK YARN THAT HAD BEEN CUT INTO TWO INCH LONG PIECES AND TIED TO ANOTHER PIECE OF STRING.

I was doomed…

I was… Abraham Lincoln.

Like any normal child would, I protested this costume nightmare, but Freda seemed insulted at my lack of appreciation.  She left.  I cried. Then my knee started to hurt and I mumbled something about Lincoln having a cane. Betsy’s mother picked a pebble out of my knee and then helped me get prepared for the neighborhood trick-or-treating. Which was awful. A little old lady opened the door to give us a candy and when it was my turn to step forward she let out an audible gasp and said, “Oh, you poor thing.”   

Yeah, her pity might have scored me some extra candy, but I have a scar from that day. I have two scars from that day! One emotional scar the size of Texas, and another scar on my knee from running to the car for a Cinderella outfit that would never be found. Every time I shave my legs I’m haunted by the memory of that day. And every time I shave my legs I find myself repeating the words of The Gettysburg Address.

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

Unless you want to be Cinderella for Halloween like all of your friends and you have a wicked stepmother with dreams of ruining your life. 

Well, four score and seven years ago I had a dream to be Cinderella.  And... 


I'm still dreaming.