By Mary Lou Ferguson

“Mommy, I can’t move!” my four-year-old son wailed. With only his head and chubby hands showing, and with two feet pointing outward, he began to cry. Tears came spilling down his fat, rosy cheeks. This adorable child was being completely consumed by a papier-mâché pumpkin that had gotten out of control.

My creative project had begun a week or two before Halloween. Every day, I added more and more layers of paper and glue to form the shape and size I wanted. At last, the pumpkin was ready to be painted its bright orange color. I even painted green leaves around the opening on top.

As I looked down, I began hoisting the huge pumpkin off his tiny body.

“It’s OK, honey,” I said quietly. “Let me give you a big hug.”

The pumpkin decorated our front doorstep that year and several years running, until it just wore out. I think someone finally sat on it, breaking it into pieces.

I don’t recall what my son wore trick-or-treating around our neighborhood that year. I am certain, however, it was something simple. But to this day, Halloween has remained my least favorite holiday.