In October 2021, during my first year at UR, I entered the River Campus Libraries’ annual costume contest. It was held online — probably because no costume looks good with a surgical mask across its wearer’s face.
Not to worry — I had selected an incredibly mask-friendly costume: a Sexy Plague Doctor.
Despite a comprehensive photoshoot with my friend (dressed as a “cool ghost”), I didn’t win. Still, I found solace knowing I was likely the only first-year with two costume contest victories already under my belt — or corset, rather.
We Jarvises, especially my dad and I, take Halloween seriously. When I was younger, the two of us approached trick-or-treating like a military operation. With the strategic use of my father as a candy-carrying pack mule, I could employ candy-related psychological tricks on my unsuspecting neighbors.
If my candy bucket became too full, I would empty it — but not entirely. An empty bucket says that a kid is just starting out. But a child with only a quarter bucket full at 7:30 p.m.? Tragic. Extra candy compensation ensues.
There are other schemes for optimal candy acquisition, but I’ll spare you. The point is, when we do Halloween, we do it right, and costumes are no exception.
I have only vague memories of my first Scare Fair costume contest victory. My older sister was a mad scientist and I was her loyal robot. The costume was simple: two cardboard boxes spraypainted silver — one for my body and one for my head. We won the kids’ category and were awarded ribbons and candy.
Katie and her older sister in their prize-winning costumes.
The second win came in seventh grade, though my success was more due to poor competition than costume competence. At that point in time, I had recently gotten into Pinterest, and my “Costume Ideas” board was intense. The costume I decided on was Pirate Carrying Mermaid. And the execution (thanks to Dr. Jarvis) wasn’t half bad. With my legs clad in pantaloons and torso in a skin-toned shirt and bikini top, the costume’s base look was odd. However, at my waist hung a “treasure chest” fashioned from a storage bin, and attached to my back was a duct-taped pirate torso with a mannequin head complete with mask and wig. The illusion was so convincing that strangers jumped when they realized the pirate behind me — whom I’d dubbed “Fernando” — wasn’t real.
As a faculty child, I was mainly hoping to win the kids’ bracket in RCL’s costume contest, but a gaggle of toddlers in woodland creature costumes stole that one. Instead, through a technicality, I ended up winning the prize for “Best Couples Costume.” For whatever reason — maybe that year wasn’t well-attended or maybe couples’ costumes were out of Vogue in 2015 — Fernando and I won a $200 giftcard to Spitale Laser Spa and Nail Salon in College Town. Fernando had neither hands nor hair (wig notwithstanding), so he didn’t mind when I shared our winnings with my best friend instead.
Katie and Dr. Michael Jarvis on Halloween night, 2015.
I haven’t done much with the Scare Fair since, but Rush Rhees will always have a place in the Halloweens of my childhood. Is there a moral of the story here? Probably not. But if I enter again in my final year, I could see myself easily losing to a Pinterest-addicted, theatre-obsessed, 12-year-old faculty kid. In that case, I think the legacy of the Campus Brat would be in good hands.
