Happy, Grief-y Halloween

October 31 was my late father's birthday. And, well, it's complicated.

Ahh, Halloween.

I’m a big fan of this particular holiday. Not just because I love candy corn (YES, Fight me), but also because I love Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Almond Joy, and Milk Duds. And Halloween is basically the only time I eat these things. Could I walk into literally any grocery store, drug store, or convenience store in America at any time of year and buy and consume these things? Sure. But would I? No, never. Especially the Milk Duds. (BTW, children: I know you don’t read my Substack, but know that I am coming for your Milk Duds, and always have, when you weren’t looking. And all the other things too. Bwah ha ha!)

It’s also a holiday that makes me super nostalgic. Partly because of the usual stuff: fond childhood memories of costumes, carving pumpkins, bobbing for apples, and having to go to a stupid Halloween party at your elementary school instead of trick or treating during the great cyanide and razor blades scare of ‘82. (Related: biting into a candy bar after trick or treating the following year and thinking it was laced with cyanide, running to your parents in a panic, and having them calmly tell you that, no, Clark Bars are just powdery like that, and also, if it were cyanide you’d already be dead.)

But the other reason Halloween hits me in the heart is that it was my late father’s birthday. The holiday is inextricably linked with with him in my mind, and always will be.

It was fun having a dad with a Halloween birthday when I was growing up. There were often family friends and relatives over on Halloween to celebrate his birthday (often along with my grandmother’s, which was November 1) and ooh and ahh over my brother’s and my costumes. So the night always had an extra festive, cozy feel.

As a teenager and as an adult, I loved picking out a birthday card for my father every October—the punnier and Dad-jokier the better. If I couldn’t find an actual Halloween Birthday card (they do exist!) then I’d buy a Halloween card and customize it. (Aside: Who sends Halloween cards? Weird.)

My father died almost four years ago. But when this time of year rolls around, the thought still inevitably pops into my mind, often more than once, that I need to get him a card. And then I feel a little wave of sadness when I remember that, actually, no, I don’t. And then I miss him.

Sort of.

Because—(Warning! Major tonal shift ahead!)—while I do have occasional pangs of grief about my dad being gone, especially around the holidays, I feel an equal and opposite sense of relief.

It’s a weird, bifurcated way of experiencing loss. But my father was a weird, birfurcated man.

I loved him, but he could also be very difficult to be around. I’ve hinted at this in past posts; revealed it in dribs and drabs. I probably won’t ever go into great detail about it here on my Substack, because this medium feels too exposed. And also because the topic is too complex and layered for short form. I’ll probably write a book about it someday.

But for now, I will say this: my father was abused by his own father as a child. And as is so often the case with survivors of abuse, the damage that was done to him had repercussions for the people around him—especially those closest to him—for all of his life.

The worst manifestations of this were not prominent in my childhood. I think my dad worked very hard to keep his demons out of my brother’s and my view, both to protect us and also, I think, to protect the image we had of him. My early memories of him are almost entirely positive. But having him in my adult life, and in the life of my children and husband in particular, was complicated and unpredictable and messy. It was tiring. It was a minefield.

And yet still, sometimes, it was fine. Even great.

Because here’s the thing: much of the time, my father was a goddamned delight. He was charming and playful and generous and funny. He was infectiously enthusiastic, and (usually) great with kids. He was insightful about the workings of the world, and knowledgeable about a great many things. Sure, he tended to dominate conversations and grandstand. He could be pedantic. But he could also make you feel like you were the most amazing person in the world. He could make you feel beloved.

He did it for me, a million times over. And almost as many times over, he broke my heart.

I’ve said more here than I planned to say. And yet there’s so much more I could say. But I think it’s time to stop, and maybe go hunt down some Milk Duds.

I’ll just end end with this:

I loved my father.

I deeply miss the person he was to me—and the person I thought he was—when I was a child.

I miss buying him a birthday card at Halloween.

And a lot of the time, I don’t miss him at all.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

P.S. On a lighter but possibly more controversial note: Here’s a post from last Halloween about my issue with Salem vis a vis witches—specifically the fact that there WEREN’T ANY, so why is it all witches, all the time up there? Harumph.

P.P.S. And now back to our regularly scheduled self promotion: