Hubby and I walk into a car rental place and pick out a Chevy Cruze the agency insists is “RED.” I call it terracotta. Chevy’s website calls it Autumn Metallic. Either way, it’s not red.
Why does this matter? Imagine trying to find your rental in a strange lot and saying, “It’s red.” Would you look for that car? Exactly.
The Cruze also has a dashboard computer that does everything but bake bread—without instructions. Too tired to figure it out, we grab gas and snacks at a Kangaroo mini-mart.
While Hubby’s inside, I plug in my phone. He returns and says, “Find something on the radio. Looks like it’s got satellite.” I try, but the screen keeps asking me permission for things I don’t understand. I hit yes. Nothing happens.
Then suddenly—music. “Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate’s life for me,” in a voice suspiciously like Johnny Depp. Next up: This Is Halloween from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Perfect, since we’re headed to Disney World.
“It’s like they know we’re coming,” Hubby says. “Disney must have its own station.”
I’m convinced. We sing along—until the songs end abruptly. Then comes a rumba ditty we hate, followed by beeps, whirls, and finally… a telephone ring.
Hubby stares at me. “Those are your ringtones! The car is playing your ringtones. What did you plug into?”
And just like that, the Disney magic vanishes. Johnny Depp wasn’t crooning to me after all; it was an old 99-cent ringtone download. This Is Halloween? Same story.
So no, I don’t know how to work the car’s computer. But I do know one thing: I’m not sitting in a RED car.
Has your car ever synced itself to your ringtones?
We decided to take the family on a trip to Disney World. It was the first time for our five- and seven-year-old granddaughters. The drive? About 18 hours. We pulled out of the driveway at 5:30 a.m. No problems.
The seven-year-old had been learning about states in school, so as we crossed each state line, we’d shout its name and everyone would cheer. One state down—so many more to go.
Somewhere in our third state, the five-year-old sighed and said, “I’m tired of all these little states. Just tell me when we get to the state of Japan.” No problem.
The day rolled on smoothly. The kids napped between viewings of Cinderella for the thousandth time. Before we knew it, the giant, gaudy South of the Border sign appeared on the horizon. If you’ve never seen it, it’s a long-standing tourist trap-slash-rest stop sitting right on the North/South Carolina border. Bright lights, oversized cement animals, buildings painted in every color of the rainbow. It’s been around since the 1950s, and for us, it’s almost a mandatory stop on the way to Florida.
We pulled into the lot. “Everybody up!” I called. “Time to stretch!”
The five-year-old popped up, looked out the van window, and gasped. “We made it! Oh my gosh, we’re really at Disney World! I can’t believe it!”
Without missing a beat, my husband said, “Yep! We made it to Disney World! I think I just saw a princess go around the corner!” I gave him a look. He leaned in and whispered, “Just think of all the time and money we’d save if they really believe this is Disney.” He’s smiling. I’m not.
Meanwhile, the seven-year-old had leapt from the van and planted herself in front of her twirling little sister.
“This is NOT DISNEY!” she shouted, her voice rising with each sentence. “Do you see any CASTLES? Do you see any PRINCESSES? Do you see MICKEY MOUSE!?”
The five-year-old stopped twirling and looked crushed. “Rats. I thought this was Disney.” She crossed her arms and added, “Well… at least tell me we’re as far as Japan.”
My husband and I just stared at each other. I said, “Well, I suppose we could take her to Epcot. They do have a Japan.”
He shook his head. “No, no. All we have to do is tell her the Georgia Welcome Center is the entrance to Japan. She’ll never know the difference.”
It’s almost Halloween time! You may not realize this because it’s only September 12th… but that’s beside the point. I saw my first woolly caterpillar and a yellow leaf. The county fair is in town. That can only mean one thing: Halloween is almost here.
Since moving to our current home—a little house right on a main road—Halloween has become an event. It reminds me of my childhood, when neighborhoods came alive with decorations, and every porch was lit up with spooky fun. Around here, we’re still one of the only houses that decorates the way we do—but that’s okay. I’m convinced it’ll catch on.
Year One: The Great Candy Shortage
We didn’t know what to expect our first Halloween here. I bought a couple of bags of candy, and we all sat on the front porch, excited. An hour in, we were out of candy. Out of individual snack bags. Out of school lunch cookies and chips. Out of cup-a-soup. Out of oatmeal packets. We even gave away extra pens, hotel shampoos, and those little soap pellets you put in dishwashers. I sent my husband to the corner store for reinforcements. When he came back, we were greeting kids with a smile and the only thing left: encouragement.
Year Two: Enter the Pirates
That’s when I realized—no, I may not be Walt Disney, and no, I don’t have Disney’s budget, but I do have creativity, cardboard, and a glue gun. I created a theme: Pirates of the Caribbean: Bohemian Chic. Everything was repurposed. I sewed, stuffed, sawed, glued, painted, and dyed my way through old curtains, coat racks, and clearance bins. Neighbors gathered to watch the madness unfold.
And then—of course—a hurricane hit. Everything was in shambles. But I wasn’t deterred. I rebuilt it all, piece by soggy piece.
Halloween night arrived with full sound effects, lighting, and family members dressed as pirates mingling with life-size figures. And then it snowed. I looked at my husband and said, “Well, I guess we’ve left the Caribbean and landed in the Aleutian Islands.”
We figured no one would show up. He secretly hoped they wouldn’t (we’d bought a lot of candy). But they came—cars lining the road, families taking pictures with our set. Parents told me they couldn’t afford to take their kids to places like Disney, and this—this little yard of foam and fabric—was the closest they’d ever get. I was humbled. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about joy.
Year Three: Cancelled but Not Defeated
I had big plans. The storyline, the moving parts, the upgraded pirates. But another hurricane hit. Halloween was officially canceled. Still, we dressed in costume, set up what we could, and greeted the brave 20 kids who ventured out. That small turnout meant the world. And it set my heart on fire for the next year—this year.
Year Four: Pirates Meet the Haunted Mansion
This year, I’m combining my two favorite Disney rides: Pirates of the Caribbean and The Haunted Mansion—with a dash of absurdity thrown in for fun. Think ghostly pirates, DIY tombstones, and dollar-store elegance.
So far, I’ve created a Grim Reaper from old Goodwill sheets, a coat rack, my daughter’s head (molded in plastic wrap), crack filler, and truck-liner spray paint. Cost: $15.00.
My tombstones are crafted from warped shelving, ruined ceiling tiles (thanks again, hurricane), accessories from old costumes, Dollar Store treasures, caulking, and—my beloved duct tape. Still to be painted, but they’re coming along.
I’ve also upgraded my pirate hands. No more stuffed gloves! Now they have bendable wire skeletons so I can actually pose their fingers. (Small victories matter.)
If folks are interested, I’ll keep posting updates on my DIY adventure as we countdown to Halloween. The display might not be Disney-level, but it’s real, it’s ridiculous, and it brings people joy.
Now, quick question— Has anyone checked the forecast for October 31st? Hurricane… yes or no?
Deborah Sickle Hill 