The year I was ten was supposed to be THE BEST HALLOWEEN EVER. The neighbor promised he’d take his kids and a bunch of us trick-or-treating on a mini-hayride he’d rigged up for the occasion. It consisted of his John Deere lawn tractor (keep your fingers away from the moving parts, kiddies), which pulled a two-wheeled trailer that had a large flat board attached to it. This is what the twelve or so of us were to sit on.

As usual, I had refused to be Sleeping Beauty or a Ninja Turtle or some other flimsy costume that came in a box. Every year, from the 4th of July onward, I spent my spare time dreaming up the perfect costume. This year, it took me all the way up to my birthday (which is only ten days before Halloween) to figure it out. But I had it: I was going to be… a BAG OF GARBAGE! It was perfect. None of the other kids would do it. None of the other kids would even think of doing it.

I fetched a Hefty Sinch-Sac out of my Mom’s cabinet and went to work. I had a pair of yellow stirrup pants (remember those things?) and a yellow sweater that matched the drawstrings on my trashbag. I painted my face brown and cut holes in the bottom of the bag for my feet, and ones in the side for my arms. I stepped into the bag and cinched it up around my neck. Perfect! I was going to be a hit! My stepfather decided I looked too saggy to be a real garbage bag, and stuffed me full of crumpled newspaper for that “authentic” full-bag look. My Mom handed me my loot bucket, and I was on my way to meet the other kids in our street.

I didn’t grow up in a big city, so houses weren’t on top of each other like they are here and in other cities; they were spread out enough that it actually made sense to be pulled around on the little wagon my neighbor had rigged up.

I came out to find that most of the other kids were already waiting around for things to get started. The other kids stared as I walked up.

Girl who was always a princess: “What are you supposed to be?”

Ninja Turtle #1: “Yeah, you look like a garbage bag!”

Ninja Turtle #2: “You should have been a Ninja Turtle, then we could be all four of them!”

Me: “I’m a garbage bag! I did it all myself!”

*Blank looks*

The other kids quickly lost interest in me as the Princess’ dad started his lawn tractor. Before we could take off, though, a mini van quickly pulled up to our wagon, and all of its doors flew open. Out hopped a girl we went to school with, her little brother and their Mom, who rushed up to our driver.

“Glen, can you please take Kristie and Stevie too?” Her voice dropped here: “They don’t have anyone else to go with.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Denise. Of course they can come.”

“Thanks, Glen. Kristie, you call me from Mr. Johnson’s house when you’re all through, okay?” She glanced at Mr. Johnson to make sure he got the message too.

UGGH, dorky Kristie and her crybaby little brother, who was known to wet his pants several times a day. All of us kids glanced at each other, dreading the thought of spending time with kids who were so uncool. We were all so excited about our mini-hay ride, though, we soon forgot about her.

Mr. Johnson gave us a few quick rules; keep your feet up, wait til he stopped to jump off, and so on.

As we took off, we huddled together in the back, talking and giggling and generally excluding Kristie as much as possible. I remember wondering what her Mom was thinking. You just can’t force things like this.

It went on like this for a while, until we made a turn and went up the next street. As we finished the turn, the trailer went over an enormous bump. We all laughed and screamed, assuming it was part of the road. Suddenly, we heard a chilling scream and Mr. Johnson stopped the tractor with a jolt.

Against Mr. Johnson’s repeated cautions, Kristie had decided to dangle her feet off of the front of the wagon; her foot got caught and she was pulled under the heavy wheels. Not only did her little eight-year-old body have to bear the weight of the trailer, but also the full load of twelve kids.

At first, everything was confused. We got off the wagon, screaming, and some of us started crying. Mr. Johnson assessed the damage grimly. All I remember from those first few minutes was that blood streamed down the side of Kristie’s head and out of her ear; her arm dangled at her side uselessly and at an odd angle. Mr. Johnson picked her up gently and drove back on the tractor while he held her on his lap.

After a couple of minutes of discussion and speculation among us kids, we dispersed and went home. I found out the rest later. Kristie’s arm was broken in several places, and after she came back to school she wore a cast that reminded us all of that night for months to come. Her right ear was completely cauliflowered and had to be operated on a couple of times to coax it back into a shape that resembled an ear.

Other children at school continued to make fun of her after that, since she remained dorky. Those of us who were there that night left her alone; we weren’t nice to her, but we stopped poking at her.

Needless to say, that was the first and last neighborhood Halloween hayride.