Thought Balloons by Don MacPherson "A hero for five seconds" Ah, Halloween. There is no greater holiday for a fan of super-hero comics. Though really, it's not a holiday, per se. There's no time off or anything, which, as members of an ancient tribe of warriors hidden somewhere in the Ukraine are wont to say, sucks ass. I was invited to a Halloween party this past weekend at a local haunted house (a co-worker has an apartment in there... quite cool), but my regular life got in the way of efforts of assemble a decent costume. Had a great time all the same, but I found myself longing for the days when an entire week (or more) of one's life revolved around trick-or-treating. Halloween was a special time around my house when I was a kid. No, the kitchen wasn't done up to look like an abattoir, nor did haunting moans emanate from the house to the alarm of passers by. The reason the unholy holiday was so special 'round the house was thanks to my mother... and her sewing room. Mom was -- and still is -- a wizard with a needle and thread. She made a full-body devil costume for me (or was it for my brother?), and a bear costume. There was a clown in there one year as well. There's nothing wrong with those plastic store-bought get-ups, but I always felt Mom's homemade outfits were leaps and bounds better, making me and my brothers the best-dressed in the neighborhood for one night a year. Of course, upon discovering the world of comics, I just had to go out as a super-hero on Halloween. And Mom, saint that she is, complied. My mother, in her aim to please her eldest child, made a Spider-Man costume one year. I was covered head-to-toe in Spidey's red and blue. She even got the webbing pattern on there. Can you imagine the time and effort? Despite the fact I complained that she ruined the costume by cutting out eye and mouth holes, I was one happy camper that All Hallows Eve. My favorite costume, though, wasn't that Spidey suit. One year, Mom found a pattern package that boasted not one, but two costume designs: Batman and Robin. Batman was one of my favorite characters; hell, an issue of Batman Family was my first comic book. I was thrilled, and as Mom slaved away with bits of felt and cloth in her basement hideaway, I dreamed of what I believed would be the Ultimate Halloween. The problem: I needed someone to be Robin (the role of the Darknight Detective was reserved for me, obviously). My brother Derek, not quite two years my junior, was the logical choice. If memory serves, he was all for going out as a super-hero on Halloween... but not as my yellow-caped second banana. I believe we argued back and forth, with me playing the big-brother card, and him countering repeatedly with "I don' wanna." Circumstances conspired to favor my side of the argument, though. After all, Mom already had the pattern, and Derek was promised the top-billed role for the following year, when the Bat-costume would fit him. A couple of days before the end of October, it was time for the first donning of the cape and cowl. Mom's pattern recreated the Adam West-era Batman, which was OK with me, even though I was more familiar with a dark avenger with longer ears and a longer cape. The right bat-ear flopped a little too; Mom explained she couldn't get a piece of cardboard in there to keep it straight all the time. Didn't matter, though. What shortcomings the costume might have had in comparison with the images in my comics were overcome by imagination. But it wasn't until I was out begging for candy door-to-door that I realized just how cool the costume really was. My brother, father and I were having a great time, and I was hauling in some great loot. I took off running down Sycamore Avenue, in that carefree and chaotic way that kids do. I was up ahead of Dad and Derek, my cape (complete with the batwing design at the bottom) flowing behind me as I ran past a lamppost. I looked down and caught a glimpse of my shadow looming ahead, elongating as I got farther away from the streetlight. For a moment, the shadow was perfect. For a moment, I was Batman. This Halloween, in my 30th year, I won't be out trick-or-treating. I'll be at home, watching The West Wing and keeping an ear out for little knocks at my apartment door. I'm handing out comics, not candy, which I think should be a nice and cool change of pace for the young ghouls expecting Tootsie rolls and those miniature packets of Chiclets. For me, Halloween will never really be about the candy or costume parties. It'll always be about that five seconds on Sycamore when a childhood dream came true. Thanks, Mom. No, Don MacPherson isn't dressed up for Halloween. He always looks that way. Be nice. Email Don MacPherson comments about this column, or discuss it on the Fourth Rail message board.