Halloween, About Forty-Five Years Later

Trick-or-Treat, Plus Forty-Five

“Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

This was the code phrase in its entirety.  Although it was not necessary to say the whole phrase every time, it was a good idea to throw it in among the abbreviated “Trick-or-Treat” from time to time, just to be sure. 

At age seven, I was susceptible to the rumor mill owned and operated by my older brother Mike.  I was just in second grade, what did I know?  He was in fourth grade; his classroom was on the other side of the hall in our elementary school.  He told me that sometimes, people did crazy things to you instead of giving you candy.  They were allowed, as long as they shouted “Trick!” when they did it.  He told me to expect a bucket of water over a door, or for someone to creep up behind me with scissors to cut a hole in my candy bag.  Of course, nothing like this ever happened.  As I remember, we covered about twelve suburban blocks, both sides of the road, where most of the houses had lights on, signaling us that the grown-ups had treats on offer.  Chocolate bars were what I prized the most.  After that, there was a list of candy which was on the “good” list:  malt balls, candy corn, circus peanuts (big orange sugary things), sweet tarts, and many more.  The category of home-made treats was sometimes good, sometimes iffy.  I never really like those balls of carmel popcorn, though I always ate the rice crispy/marshmallow bars.  I also had a “dud” list, of which one comes to mind above all others.  Long after all the candy was eaten every year, practically at Easter, those taffy like chews which were wrapped in black and orange remained among my personal effects.  One of them was maple flavored, but they were so sticky they gave a different sensation than, for example a Three Musketeers Bar.  Dad always came along with his predictable one liner that he used too often on too many subjects:  “When you’re an adult, that one will be your favorite.”  What was with that?  It was like cookies.  I liked virtually all cookies, except fig newtons.  Sure enough, he frequently said, “When you’re an adult, that one will be your favorite.”  I supposed early that being an adult was obviously not a free ticket to the world of always being right.  Fig newtons?  Bah.  Maple chews?  Hah.

One year I let mom dress me in dad’s fishing equipment.  I had his vest, creel, hat (with flies he never used), and net.  Mom stenciled a mustache on my young face and put a garbage bag in the net.  When I went out to neighborhood houses and adults came out to give me candy, I just held out the net.  So many charmed adults took my picture, I am pleased to imagine my eight year old fisherman strangely appearing in so many people’s photographic history.  Forty-five years later, I can almost hear them looking through their parents photo legacies:

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know, but isn’t he just the cutest thing?”

By my fifth grade year already, there were signs that change was in the air.  Dawn came to the school Halloween party in a miniskirt, and Ruth Ann came in a modified cheerleader’s outfit from her sister.  I will reiterate the fact that I was a mere ten years old.  With the exception of Miss Martinson, my teacher for the second grade year, I was previously oblivious to all thoughts of females, except as buddies or enemies.  Of course, there was Sherry Snyder, with whom I shared an interest in the sixties vampire soap opera, “Dark Shadows.”  (I will have the reader know, was for a number of years the second most watched soap in the world.)  Sherry was like Gina in Dennis the Menace, though.  Maybe if she hadn’t moved away, …but on the other hand, I was only in fifth grade.  What a confusing time!  As I’ve written elsewhere, I wasn’t too young to be aware of certain attractive women in my television shows, but that was different, at least for a while.

By high school, of course, Trick-or-Treating was a thing of the distant past.  I didn’t get out much, so Halloween was that day when I hung around to see if the slightly younger teenage girls would come to the door.  Sure enough, one year the girl from across the street announced her budding maturity in pirate gear.  Not the kind of long overcoat and sensible sun-blocking floppy hat that Captain Hook might wear, more like a pirate-themed mini skirt with a lace-up bodice, and …I forget what else.  Some memories should be restricted to my young psyche.  (There’s a switch:  thoughts labeled “for viewing by persons under the age of seventeen only…”)

Finally, Halloween reached its terminus in my life with the singles young adult scene.  As a very shy, introverted type, I didn’t take a lot of social related chances.  Halloween was that special time of year, though, when even I could let loose a little.  For example, I once won seventy-five dollars in a bar because I let Ken Porter wrap me up in two bed sheets worth of cloth strips, and because I was willing to dance around in a bar like a mummy.  My finest hour, however was as Abdul the Magnificent.  (I must pause to apologize for ignorance.  At that time of my life I knew nothing of the Arab world outside of the scant news stories about the oil crisis.  The mention of Abdul the Magnificent is meant respectfully as an adventure character, not unlike Sir Gawain, or Frodo Baggins.)  Anyway, not knowing anything about the head covering of Arab men, and having no internet in those days, I took a bed sheet and fastened it to my head with a black tie, letting the sheet drape down my back.  (Actually, not a bad effect)  I wore white karate pants and socks with no shoes.  I put on a v-neck white t-shirt and dug out an old gold cumber bun for style; it looked rich, especially with nine or ten necklaces which all hung to my belly and a stenciled in mustache.  (See above, some things never change, like my inability to grow adequate facial hair).  Man, was I the life of the party that night!  I still didn’t get the girl, Kathy S---- , because regardless of Abdul’s stylish superiority, my rival showed up that night, and apparently no amount of costume could overcome his six foot-four, muscular frame.  (By “get the girl,” I don’t mean anything shallow or creepy, I had relationship in mind; I was serious business!  It just wasn’t ever going to be.)

Now, I am out of it.  I don’t infringe on my adult kids in their Halloween celebrations; that’s too weird.  We sometimes join them at more tame events.  We bought some candy, and it was interesting to see that, with the help of the media, all the little goobers were here and gone by seven-thirty (darkness falls).  No smashing pumpkins, because virtually nobody has put them out.  (It wouldn’t do for an old fart to be caught busting up some kids pumpkin, anyway.  Can you imagine the headline:  "Middle Aged Vandal Smashes Child's Prize Pumpkin"?)  It was edgy enough when I was a kid.  Furthermore, I am honestly relieved that there were no young teenage girls in pirate-wench outfits too.  Could it be that the girls across the street had someone specific in mind?  After all, I hadn’t seen the like of that costume anywhere since?  Nah, probably not.  So here I sit with a little bit of a sugar buzz because my lovely wife bought me a package of candy corn, just for me.  Did I ever say I can’t eat a partial bag of candy?  ‘Tis true, wait until Christmas and I get going on what happened to that yearly double decker box of Russell Stover crème filled chocolates from Grampa Rabourn…AND, I can’t help but wonder where I can get my hands on some of those yummy maple flavored chews, that or a nice package of fig newtons.