Costume-phobic

Costumes are the thing I love most about Halloween*. Inexplicably, most people have some sort of pathological hang-up about dressing in costumes on non-Halloween days of the year. 

I certainly don’t have any hang-ups about it, what with being a re-enactor, a frequenter of fairy conventions and renaissance fairs, and a generally eccentric dresser who prefers black and unnatural hair colors. Although usually self-conscious, I even sometimes get a kick out walking into the convenience store in full Revolutionary War soldier garb before or after an event and perusing the chips aisle and snagging a Diet Snapple. 

But man, other people. What is with them? What is with the neurosis and disdain for costumes? Take the rube I witnessed waddling through Halloween Adventure this year. Around her, the children's eyes were alight with possibilities! They skittered this way and that, delighted in the fact that, for one day of the year at least, they could be who they knew there were always meant to be: A ninja-witch. A vampiric Anne of Green Gables. An alien construction worker! 

And then there was the lady. The woman who, clearly, had no vitality left in her; her life essence depleted. This woman, lording over the group of tittering teenagers she was with, proclaimed loudly, in a voice sounding not unlike Droopy Dog, “Seems like a lot of work for one day.” Um, go back to perfecting that indent in your couch, lady. Let the creatives shine, will you? 

* I fib. I love everything about Halloween from the decorations, to the weather, to the candy, to the fact that it's the one day of the year on which you can roam your neighborhood at night and people think it's acceptable and that you're not strange or a creeper. 

Post Script:

I had another amusing encounter during this same trip to Halloween Adventure. I had snagged a half-priced foam wall hanging that looked like a stone cemetery-gate plaque from Dante's Inferno. A gargoyle extends its batwings, creating a gorgeous arch under which the words "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" are inscribed. 

The robotic cashier serving me was shaken out of his routine long enough to look at the item he was scanning and exclaim "Hey! This is pretty cool!" I have a habit of being too open with people, so I instinctively told him the plan I had formulated for it. "I plan to hang it over the bathroom door all year long." 

He looked at me blankly, reverted back to his robotic movements, and began to bag the item. About twenty seconds later, a smile exploded onto his face, he chuckled audibly, and said "Hey! That's funny!" 

A Love Letter to Rebel Hill

I live on Rebel Hill, which rises above Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania, a quiet village just off the Main Line. The hill is one of twin hills - foothills really, topping out at about 230 feet – with a deep cleft in between known as “The Gulph.” A determined creek took hundreds of thousands of years to cut that defile into the rock; a rebellious creek, indeed.

The place is bewitching – an air of history pervades the natural landscape, all nestled in the armpit of the intersection of three major area highways. Rebels of all sorts have been lured by its charms for centuries. In fact, during the American Revolution, most of the hill’s residents were patriots, or “rebels”, ready to cut ties with King George. Thus the colloquial moniker “Rebel Hill” eventually replaced “Mount Joy Manor” on the map and found its way onto real estate deeds.

The hill truly is unique. In the 18^th century, a single U-shaped dirt path climbed up three-quarters of one end, cut across the hill, and made its way down the other side. A few sequestered homes and farms stood proudly along this path. Since then, other roads have branched off this main path, carving up the original few large tracts of land and providing countless plots for additional endless ramshackle, ununiformed houses. The abodes cling to the hillside, multiplying in size with sprawling additions that were added willy-nilly and employ varied façade material including stucco, wood, vinyl siding or stone. These, indeed, are the houses of rebels. And ever since those 18^th century rebels first inhabited the hill, decidedly crusty, hard-working, not-so-affluent folk have continued to populate this hill with ensuing generations.

The complexion of the hill suddenly changed in the 1980’s, however, when inflated and vainglorious developer Ed Doran thought it a grand idea to turn Rebel Hill into a posh residential appendage to the Main Line. Prior to Doran’s machinations, the hill’s elevation seemed to segregate the rebel residents from the Main Line’s swank elite spread at its feet. Doran’s pet housing project eventually succeeded, after several false starts and developer changes, and created an elite upper echelon atop the hill and above the original road. The townhouse development resulted in the two distinctly different classes of people who presently reside on the hill: the A-holes who bought Doran’s half-million dollar, uniform, squished together townhomes, which offer only a 10x10 balcony of outdoor living space and are perched upon the hill’s previously natural summit like some damned,  pre-fabricated Mount Olympus; and those of us old, crusty, not-so-prosperous rebels with houses and spirits that have been clinging to this hillside on rambling plots filled with brambles and oak trees since the birth of our country.

In 2012, the bluff’s rebellious spirit lured Michael and I to become residents of the hill.  We bought a rebel’s house whose frame is an old log cabin. The county registrar misplaced the home’s deed prior to the last one I could track down dated 1865, so we don’t know how old the house really is. However, as a testament to its age, one can observe the huge, gnarled logs that were its original walls when taking a peek under the thick attic insulation. At some point after the cabin’s initial construction, an addition was built and stucco was applied to the logs, resulting in warped-looking exterior walls that make our humble abode look like the Crooked Old Man’s crooked old house.

Our house has but four rooms - the only four rooms we would ever use in a home even three time its size: living room, kitchen, bedroom, office/guestroom. Visitors and friends may scoff at our lack of dining room, but the dozens of partygoers who frequent our home during our annual Christmas party never seem to complain as they pile into the oversized kitchen, which could accommodate up to 30. Instead of a fancy-schmancy formal dining room or “media room”, these four room are complemented by the history, stories and neighborhood legends that envelop our home. For example, an older neighbor once told us that during her childhood, the neighborhood children considered our home “the haunted one.” After all, it stands by itself on one side of the road and is perched higher than all the rest of the homes on the other side of street, which adds to its singular appearance. Another neighbor told us the house boasted a huge walk-in hearth and dirt floor prior to its 2008 renovation. We’ve heard tell of a loyalist hanging that took place at the bottom of the hill, as well of a quelling of a mutiny in which 22-year-old then-general Aaron Burr chopped off a mutineer’s hand with one determined swoop of his sabre. Another neighbor claimed that Aaron Burr lodged in our home when the Continental Army encamped upon on the hill in December 1777. I can believe in hangings and hauntings and hearths, but this last one was hard to swallow; I doubted a general would submit to lodging in a log cabin when there was a more formal homestead, the Rees home, on the hill.

Forget Aaron Burr and his posh lodgings, however, - our home is built into the very hill itself, not unlike a hobbit house! A door in the upstairs bedroom actually leads out to the backyard on level ground – a situation that confuses many guests when on the grand tour. I’ve heard “Escher” or “witchcraft” muttered more than once after opening the door and ushering guests out into the backyard after just having them climb the interior steps of the house.

Aside from all of these charms of the house and the neighborhood, however, my favorite facet about the whole enchanting situation might just be the nearby graveyard – the huge Calvary graveyard nestled in the bosom of our hill and the hill across the way.

This graveyard is so giant it’s a regional landmark.

“Where do you live?” good intentioned busy-bodies ask.

“Gulph Mills.” 

The usual response is something to the effect of “I don’t understand the words that are coming out your mouth.”

My comeback is nearly automatic at this point: “Do you know the giant graveyard on the hill with …”

“With the giant illuminated cross?” they exclaim excitedly. “I know exactly where Gulph Mills is.”

The graveyard is also very helpful when guiding fast-food delivery drivers to our home.

“Turn right at the giant graveyard? Your Crab Rangoon will be there in 20 minutes.”

Many visitors think it morbid or dreary that a sprawling graveyard is the crowning jewel of the beautiful landscape we revel in from our porch and through our bedroom windows. I, however, love it. The view of the sloping adjacent hill just past the neighbor’s massive apple tree, and the graveyard creeping up that slope is comforting. I get to witness an entire legion of folk at eternal rest amid rolling hills and stately pines. I tell myself that if they’re not the sedate type to enjoy a peaceful eternal life, well then they always have the chance to stir up a little ruckus come Halloween. Seems like a pleasant life –afterlife, really - to me. Perhaps if I eventually become a resident of that yard, I too can spend my afterlife looking back at the lovely log cottage perched midway up Rebel Hill and remember that it once  brimmed full with celebrations, friends, family, cats and a life contentedly lived.

Yes, Michael and I certainly are lucky to have found this haven. In fact, when considering whether to buy the house back in 2012, most friends and family advised us that “This house is weird. It only has four rooms. Your view is a graveyard! Why is that cross so illuminated? Your backyard is a hill!” But my dad summed Michael and I up best when he said “I wouldn’t buy it for myself, but I know it would be perfect for your two.”

He’s right, you know. This is the perfect house, and the perfect neighborhood, for these two rebels.