Monday night was one of the best nights of my life. Truly. I would have told you this sooner except I was really hoping some people who took photos would send them to me so I could put up photos with this post--- but alas, the f*ckers have sent me nada.

As Tuesday ticked by and I waited for the photos that never came, I read other bloggers? take on the big H and saw that I may be in a small, small minority of people who revel in holidays all about the costumes and the candy, but thank the GREAT PUMPKIN that I now live in a town that is full of pagan kooks. Cause Monday? One of the best nights of my life.

Picture this: a quaint New England town. Main Street. The houses are painted Stepford white. Some have farmer?s porches. Some have attached barns. All are over 100 years old.

It is Halloween night. The day has been unseasonably warm with blue skies. Green grass pokes up through layers of orange and red leaves. Up above, some beeches are still holding fast to the last of their yellow leaves.

As the sun makes an impossibly pink descent behind the steeple of the Methodist church, cars and pick-up trucks pull into the empty lot behind the old fire station. Scooter girl drives up on her orange moped which has a twig broom sticking out above the exhaust pipe. She is dressed as a witch and has a body flung across the gas tank. The body has red and white candycane striped stockings and black lace-up boots.

Scooter girl circles the dirt lot cackling wildly as we all get out of our vehicles in various stages of full costume?some are still applying make-up, some are pulling sheer black nylons over their faces, some are putting on wigs.

T and I got dressed at home. I am a corpse bride with a frilled, white hoop skirt that sways above the tips of my shoes. An old, once-was-white, jacquard cape sits on my shoulders; it has a brocade clasp to hold it closed at my neck. My face has been rubbed with white and I have thick black circles around my eyes. My lips and teeth are also coated with black. On my head is a sad straw hat with a piece of yellowed lace tumbling down from the back. Wrapped around my elbows is a long, long piece of pale blue tulle that drags out behind me like a train.

My husband is a zombie. We shake with laughter as Lumberjack Accident Man comes toward us. Spilling out from the gut of his red flannel shirt are the most realistic twists of intestines I?ve ever seen. He carries an axe and has blood running down his face.

Crazy pagans continue to arrive. We get our instructions about where to set up ?shop.? Our vignette is set up in the driveway of a house on Main Street. We quickly install a mock graveyard. Stravinsky plays from a boom box hidden in the bushes. Two chairs are set up where a ghostly Victorian couple sit, frozen, with a basket of candy on their lap. (In the course of the night, sometimes they get up and waltz stiffly before returning to their seats). Carved pumpkins, lit from within, are set at the edge of the drive. Blue lights are set in the trees for the full eerie effect.

Another woman joins us. She is also in a hoop skirt and ghost paint. She has a huge, thick chain hanging down from her neck. I covet her chain. It is awesome.

Our job is to silently lure the trick-or-treaters up the driveway where they will have to pass the zombie and the ghost of Jean-Paul Sartre to reach the candy basket.

My partner in crime and I drift and list into the street, slowing cars and letting the headlights catch on our tulle before wandering back to our driveway.

Across the street from us, Little Red Riding Hood and Lumberjack Accident Man have set up a scene on the wide porch. They are allowed to talk and do a whole sequence that has the kids screaming. Our scene is silent except for the music.

The grim reaper (the tallest man in town, 6?8?) walks purposefully down the sidewalk. In one hand is his scythe, in the other he grips a very preppy looking woman who is screaming for help. No one helps her.

The air is cool and the night couldn?t be more perfect to be outside. All around the town square are other scenarios playing out that I couldn?t see but could hear. Every once in a while Scooter Girl zips on by-- cackling and hooting.

The children, all dressed in their costumes, were adorable. And, they loved the play acting so much. But what I totally didn?t expect was the old people. So many old people came out to walk through it?and some, who couldn?t walk, were driven through slowly, so slowly. I would go right up to the car window and lift my arms sorrowfully and drift alongside the car and these old people! THEY LOVED IT! They were just loving it. They would wave and thank us as they passed on by.

Every once in awhile, the zombie would stagger down the driveway and swoop me back in his arms and kiss me madly which made us all go wild, me and the crowd.

I can?t even begin to tell you the amazing things kids said to me--- just too fabulous. A night of pretend and make believe and magic.

And when the last of the crowd had died away, all of us, in our costumes and make-up headed upstairs to the local pub where we danced the body electric.

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