When I was in grade school, my mother made me a bat. She had asked what I wanted to be for Halloween, and when I had gleefully exclaimed that I wanted to be a bat, she accepted me at my word. After all, she had been raising me for my whole life, and was surely aware of the many ways I was not a typical pink loving girl. She was aware as I was not of how I eschewed the normal girly mannerisms. I was wholly ignorant of typical gender roles, and freer for it. Eventually, I would learn how it affected me to not fit in with my peers, but for now, I was innocent of it. If I wanted to be a creepy crawly for Halloween instead of a princess, my mother saw no reason to dissuade me.
That says a lot about my mother, and the many ways she raised me to be strong and independent. Her odd daughter who would rather run wild in the slew and play with frogs wanted to be a bat for Halloween? She would make me a bat costume.
My mother took the simple and effective route of stitching black denim bat wings on an old black sweatshirt. This was quite durable, and that turned out to be a very good thing. There was a lot of hand sewing, and my mother took the opportunity to continue teaching me about sewing. I recall watching her neat stitches march along the leading edge of the wing, binding it to the arm of the sweatshirt. I marvelled at how even and perfect her stitches were. My own stitches were…. a work in progress.
Once we had the wings made, we fashioned a snout. I can’t even recall what it was made of, or how we assembled it. I remember arguing a bit with mum on exactly how it should look. Really, this was no surprise when two strong willed women worked on a project together. But it turned out, I think. The snout was only the finishing touch. The wings were the real treat.
I no longer recall the details of that Halloween either. I suppose we went out to the nearby golf course estate houses, and ran madly in the closest thing to a suburb I had ever been in. Gathering candy like tiny trophy hunters, mad with bloodlust. Or we may have gone to the local community hall, corralled up with the other kids whose parents deemed it too cold to Trick or Treat, and diverted with bob for apple games, cardboard mazes, submersing our hands in dubious darkly shrouded bowls of “brains” (cold spaghetti) or “eyeballs” (peeled grapes) and squealing with glee. Then we would collect the treat bags that some of the parents had been putting together, made with all the candy all the parents had brought, mixed and distributed. It was a heady time of year for kids whose wholesome country diet usually forbade Cheez-Whiz (too processed) and Honey Cheerios (too sugary). I can’t imagine how my parents put up with us afterwards, hopped up on the unaccustomed sugar and throwing tantrums at the slightest inconvenience.
What I remember about the Year of the Bat was more that spring, when the icy temperatures had released the foothills, and the snow once again merely decorated the top of the distant mountains. The spring runoff had surged, bringing all the frogs and ducks a young wildchild could dream of. It had ebbed again as well, letting the little depression at the bottom of our backyard hill return to a marshy spot, instead of the yellow-watered slew that housed those frogs and ducks and proved so fascinating to young me. For those few spring runoff weeks, life was grand in the slew. The snow melted, and the earth came back to life. I distinctly recall returning to the house after mum whistled us back to the house (with a real referee style whistle, as we would roam farther than a shout could carry). We would scramble back up the big hill, and my mother would turn the hose on us, admonishing her filthy children without any real surprise at our grubby state. I learned it was best to be hosed off before my brother, while the sun warmed hose offered better than the freezing cold well water it drew from. We peeled off our grey-brown clothes (no matter what colour they used to be) and shivered in the water, sluicing small rivers of muddy water off. Only then were we allowed back in the house, to clean up and make ourselves presentable for the hearty if plain fare my mother specialized in.
That summer, I found the bat costume again, and joyously pulled it back on. Now as a creature of dusk, I would run down the hill, and play on the open field below. I can recall wrapping the bat wings about myself, and trying to turn upside down. Clinging to the branch of a tree with my legs, and shielding my face from the bright sun. But that was difficult to sustain, so my agile young mind imagined time was passing, and it was now dusk. I would drop out of the tree (sometimes literally) and swoop across the field, with my bat wings extended. My arms in that costume became wings, and I flew around the field, hunting dinner, and making up the most convoluted stories of the bat colony I was a part of. The wind in my short hair assured me I was flying, and the flap of my wings became the world. I closed my eyes and soared. Hours passed this way. Just a child who refused to wear pink, racing around the gopher holes, telling stories about the bat family she belonged to.
Sometimes, the neighbour dog would come over to see what I was up to. Those were some of the best of times. The brave little bat, making cross species friendships, chasing down the evil gophers, digging holes with paw and hand! Dusk would finally actually descend, drawing those long summer evenings of my childhood to a close. The dog and I would both be called to our respective dinners. I would trundle up the hill, back to the family home, drawn to the warm glow of the windows and the irresistible call of my mother. Sometimes she let me keep the bat costume on while I ate dinner, though I can only guess at how grungy it must’ve been. She did insist I use a fork however, and not just toss the food in the air and attempt to catch it “on the wing”.
I could not tell you what became of that bat costume. I know I loved it dearly, and mended it a few times. I suppose I outgrew it eventually, and packed it away lovingly. I’m sure it was eventually whisked away by my mother, to be offered to another child who dreamed of flying. That cherished prop, to launch the imagination skyward. The costume is gone, but I still remember the long summer evenings I spent flying.
Wherever you are, Be There 