The Mothers on Halloween: Thea Koula
In October the Sweet Greek would transform: an eerie orange glow, witches on brooms hanging from the ceiling. "Halloween Store, This Way," read a silvery sign above the register, pointing up the stairs. There, just around the corner, she'd rented an extra room in Quaker Square. We helped her get ready, pulling spidery threads from plastic bags, unfurling them over the entrance. We plugged in black and orange lights, hiding the extension cords, unpacked the dry ice and heaved it into a kettle, setting the witch's broomstick against its side. Then my older cousins climbed the ladder to line the shelves with masks: Nixon and Carter, Frankenstein and werewolf, R2D2 and C3PO. There were capes of every color, Alice in Wonderland skirts, scrubs and bellbottoms and more, hung on garment wracks so close together it was hard to squeeze through.
After Greek School we always went to the Sweet Greek for baklava or kouambiethes, cut the Ikarian way, or else we chose one of the giant American cookies in the far left display case, the ones we sometimes helped her make. After our treat, my sister and I, the youngest of the cousins, were put to work: a new costume each Saturday, we'd wander the halls with signs encouraging people to shop. Then we would hide among the displays or behind the stairs that connected the stores, giggling, poking Frankenstein fingers or arrowheads or plastic rats at the people passing by.
She wore a different hat each day: black witch, Cat in the Hat, tophat or cat ears, shyly greeting customers from the old neighborhood--no matter how long it had been, she remembered their names. No matter what she was wearing, they knew her, too--the Chibis Market daughter, the oldest and quietest, hard worker, good girl.
It was in those winding halls of the old oat factory-turned-mall that I learned I could be anybody: princess or inmate, ghoul or president, Princess Leah or Scooby Doo. I could weave stories intricate as those Quaker Square hallways, varied as the costumes on the rack. No matter who I became, some people would walk by, looking anywhere but at me, and I would have to look past them, too, keep going, ignore their unfocused eyes, hostility or hurry. Others would smile, tell me I looked fabulous, maybe even reach out to shake my hand, and I would have to learn when to reach back, or walk away, when to welcome or shrink from their attention.
After Greek School we always went to the Sweet Greek for baklava or kouambiethes, cut the Ikarian way, or else we chose one of the giant American cookies in the far left display case, the ones we sometimes helped her make. After our treat, my sister and I, the youngest of the cousins, were put to work: a new costume each Saturday, we'd wander the halls with signs encouraging people to shop. Then we would hide among the displays or behind the stairs that connected the stores, giggling, poking Frankenstein fingers or arrowheads or plastic rats at the people passing by.
She wore a different hat each day: black witch, Cat in the Hat, tophat or cat ears, shyly greeting customers from the old neighborhood--no matter how long it had been, she remembered their names. No matter what she was wearing, they knew her, too--the Chibis Market daughter, the oldest and quietest, hard worker, good girl.
It was in those winding halls of the old oat factory-turned-mall that I learned I could be anybody: princess or inmate, ghoul or president, Princess Leah or Scooby Doo. I could weave stories intricate as those Quaker Square hallways, varied as the costumes on the rack. No matter who I became, some people would walk by, looking anywhere but at me, and I would have to look past them, too, keep going, ignore their unfocused eyes, hostility or hurry. Others would smile, tell me I looked fabulous, maybe even reach out to shake my hand, and I would have to learn when to reach back, or walk away, when to welcome or shrink from their attention.
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