Category: Flashback

My tree sat outside our house in the naval estate at the top of town. I cant remember what type of tree it was – back in early to mid 80’s I could tell you what K.I.T.T. stood for and how fast Airwolf could fly, but anything that didn’t involve action tv shows was beyond my remit. Still, that tree on the grass slope behind my house was one of my favourite things from that part of my childhood.

It had strong branches that began about a meter and a half up its trunk, so being one of the taller kids in the area meant I could climb it with a moderate struggle. The branches splayed out and upward so that once I’d climbed up to the first level there was a good place to sit inside the leafy cocoon it formed. Climbing still further up, the branches opened out at the top to form an area that could seat two in relative comfort, should one of my friends make it up into my tree with me.

I spent hours just sitting in my tree – watching the neighbourhood and listening to the sounds of the summer. Not that climbing the tree was a fair weather affair for me – I remember rolling a decent sized snow ball to help me climb my tree wearing heavy moon boots during the middle of winter.

All the kids in the area knew that the tree was my tree, and I became quite protective of it. I had a bit of a fight with the boy next door at one point because I was sure he’d climbed my tree while I’d been away visiting the grandparents. He probably hadn’t, since he was quite small, but he had managed it before, so paranoia set in. My best friend convinced me that the boy next door had indeed not climbed my tree, but that was only after I’d made the boy cry, and I felt bad about that. But in defence, it was my tree.

One morning, as I got ready for school, my mum urgently called me downstairs because a man who lived in the house behind my tree was up a step ladder, cutting the lowest branch with a saw. I was so upset I nearly cried, but as much as I wanted to run outside and topple him from his ladder, I’ve never been much for confrontations.

Back when I still lived at my parents place, the festive season would come with that buzz you only seem to get with kids around. I speak, of course, of my little brother Andrew and the air of excitement which would grow as the doors on his advent calendar grew fewer.

Shortly before Christmas 1998 came along, the family had gained a young puppy we’d named Disney. Apparently she looked like the kind of dog you’d expect to see in a Disney cartoon, and I just kind of went along with it in absence of a suitable alternative. After all, we didn’t want a repeat of the Snowy-gate scandal from a couple of decades previously. I’m pretty sure it was three full weeks before Snowy had a proper name, going through Star, Snoopy, Pluto, and various other try-outs before his was finally settled upon. You wouldn’t have figured that a reasonably balanced family would;
a) take several weeks to decide on a name for their cute yellow dog
b) decide on a name usually given to white dogs, not yellow ones.

Regardless of any lack of wisdom shown during the selection process, Snowy seemed to warm to his name extremely well once it had been arrived at, not fazed in the slightest by the weeks of doubt and uncertanty. Although Disney would escape that identity crisis, I often wonder if we would have come up with something better if we’d given it a bit more time. It now seems hard to picture her with any other name, though, and Disney seems as just as happy with the way things turned out as Snowy did back in his day.

It being Disney’s first xmas, and given that she’s a Springer Spaniel – a breed of dog not noted for being under-excited, all things to do with the preperations for the festive season seemed to fascinate her no end. Although she has slowed down a little with age, back when she was fresh out of the box, Disney would be lapping the walls at the slightest sign of anything exciting going on.

Here we are on the most spooky dooky night of the year, yet it seems to have passed much like any other. Except for a valiant effort from the canteen staff at work (zombie brains on the menu = home made burgers), Hallow’een 2003 has passed without the atmosphere I fondly associated with the night when I was younger.

And I’m not talking six or seven years old here – I actually made a huge effort to go out trick or treating when I was around seventeen. Me and long lost pal Colin spent two weeks making our outfits back then, using poster paints on cardboard boxes for back-packs and sewing patches onto overalls so we could venture out into the cold night air as the Ghostbusters. We had put flashing LED’s on our back-packs, built guns out of cardboard tubing and silly string cans with cables running to the back-packs. We even had the little flashy receiver thing from a Lazertag set that we pretended was a ghost detector!

To top it off, we had green slime – that stuff you get in a tub from toy shops that’s horrid to the touch, but, when smeared liberally, indicated a Ghostbuster who had earned his stripes out in the field.

The hook was ace – we’d knock on a door in trick or treat fashion and when the occupant answered we’d go “Good evening, ma’m, we’re the Ghostbusters!” then offer a slimy hand for a shake. When the occupant recoiled in horror at the slimy handshake, we’d add “Sorry about that – occupational hazard!” and we were golden!

Then the one who hadn’t done all the talking to that point would hold aloft the ghost detector, LED’s blinky-blink-blinking and announce that there was definately something very strange going on in the neighbourhood. At that point, we were in the front door and seeking bounty.

We managed to keep a few occupants talking with faux Ghostbusters banter, you know – “Have you experienced any paranormal activity recently? Is your cat in season?” stuff like that, until the next set of trick or treat’ers arrived. More often than not, the next bunch of suckers would be dressed like ghosts. We’d offer to help solve the problem for the occupants there and then – haul open the door and blast the kids with the cans of silly string. Even if you’re dressed like Freddy Kruger and Rosanne’s love-child, it’s still brown underwear time when all this stuff is unleashed upon you from the hallway you were expecting goodies to appear from!