V18 N30

The Old Fogey
Ah, those good old Cape May days... by Jackson D’Catur
We shall not talk of trick or treating
again. We are embarrassed
and contrite over the explosion
in the wee small hours that
scattered chunks of pumpkin
and at least two Wildwooders over a large
part of the city. It wouldn’t have happened
if our lanterns had been carved from the
traditional turnips rather than 3,000lbs of
mushy pumpkin: turnips are small, hard
and cheerless and the mere act of hewing the
inside out leaves a grown man weak.
Pumpkins, on the other hand, are soft as
an Englishman (as Ma used to say... hmm,
there’s a theme here but I can’t quite grasp it)
and virtually carve themselves, leaving the
creative and drunken Hallowe’en-ers time
and energy to, say, think it would be amusing
and spectacular to stuff the insides with
gunpowder, and then stand around slackjawed
as the fuse burned down.
But no more: I doubt we will ever we
scrub the stench from our rooftops and
pavements, and I fear more that those empty-headed
Wildwooders, who regained what
passes for consciousness in their ilk and
staggered away bumping fists and shouting
“duuuuuuude! Best ride ever!” and vowing to
make it “#1” on the Wildwood Party Calendar
next year (I, too, am puzzled as to how they
managed to pronounced the hashtag symbol).
Obviously, we will blow the bridges on
October 30 next year, but they are a cunning
lot, and have in the past been known to pop
up out of drains, giving Cape May the apperance
of a giant wack-a-mole game.
Anyway, we are done. Our focus now
needs to be on Thanksgiving. Obviously I
have mixed feelings on that day: I did after
all counsel against assisting the settlers:
“They’re not to be trusted,” I said, “look at
their pale faces and shifty eyes! They will
take our food, then before we know it there
will be strange self-propelled metal carriages
running all over our land, and vast
boxes full of fat people and cheap un-nutritious
food.
“Also, check out the blankets they’ve
given us... is that a scab in one? I’m not
wrapping myself in THAT!” Obviously
I had a touch of what granny called The
Gift, that very same preternatual sense
that shortly after had me quietly assume
the identity of a white fop of means. We’ve
always had a knack of being on the winning
side, us D’Caturs. Except at The Alamo. And
Waterloo. And possibly Culloden, if my suspicions
are correct
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