I know that I was three. As we walked carefully through the mobile home park on that brown, still night, my little girl reasoning grasped the fact that Dad was holding my hand safely in his, it was Halloween, we were having an absolute blast, and I was three. While my right hand remained suspended and attached to my father, my left hand grappled a large, orange plastic pumpkin that harbored a gray flashlight within its belly. That pumpkin belly also contained at least 20 pieces of collected sweets that were the fruit of our one-hour or so trek through the park. We were on our way to see one of my beloved aunts, an older sister of my mother’s.
If I was weary from the walk, I have no memory of it. Occasionally, I would look up into my father’s face and wait for him to glance down at me with that reassuring grin. On this particular October evening, I was in the business of dodging empty mud puddle holes. From time to time, I would have to break away from looking up at my Dad. I had to keep careful watch of the ground, as well as my red plaided sneakers below me. Should I stumble or fall, I might just drop that pumpkin and flashlight and candy and I was convinced that would prove to be disastrous! So, in addition to being enamored with my Dad and excited about the enchantment, I was also experiencing what may have been one of my first bouts with anxiety — all over the fate of a pumpkin and those treasures in its belly!
When I sift through my childhood moments, this particular event is my first clear little-girl memory. In times of loss and sorrow that are guaranteed ingredients of life, I have softened my pain with these images. Many years later, as my courageous father succumbed to the consequences of heart disease, I stood before him one last time, my hand still holding his; still in need of guidance; forever in awe of his strength.
I do not recall all of the events of that Halloween night, but I am sure the pumpkin and its contents resulted in hours of delight. My parents more than likely monitored and controlled my ingestion of that treasured candy, and I know that trick-or-treating became a yearly tradition. Some 56 years later, I still experience the wonder and the mystery of that long ago stroll with my father; a stroll that illustrates our lives in so many important ways.
There are dips in the road. There is darkness. There is much uncertainty and mystery. In one hand, we grasp the treasure; the reward! The other hand must cling tightly to the guide, just as that little girl of so long ago held on to her father’s warm and loving hand.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
