In our holiday-happy suburb in the holiday happy 1960s, Mom stitched Trick-or-Treat costumes with the caveat that one outfit did the work for three of us: Eric the Elder, Michele the MustFit, and Mark the Shark. Not all at once, of course; but sequentially.
As a result, none of our fantasies were realized, with the exception, perhaps, of Mom’s. She didn’t sew well. She sewed exquisitely. Museum-quality.
Take the harlequin clown suit. PLEASE take the harlequin clown suit. While other kids’ Moms shopped last minute at Ben Franklin for fright wig and striped bloomers, Mom created a classic clown suit one might wear while bowing to heads of state at a European Masquerade held in a castle on the river Rhine. Its yellow, no-size jammies had batwing sleeves and batwing legs. A black ruffled collar and black headhugger cap lent that Frenchie theatrical edge. Each of us, wearing this getup through the years, looked like a cross between an archangel and a bumble bee.