Each year was pretty much the same. We bought a cheap, thin, plastic mask (which was supposed to look like Frankenstein or an evil clown) and wore it with our regular clothes. If Mom had an old white sheet, we might cut a hole in the middle to stick our head through and go as a ghost clown or a ghost Frankenstein, but that was about as fancy as we got.
The masks were held on by a rubber band that barely stretched enough to get over my head. It was so tight that a tiny ridge would form in my scalp and remain there for days. The band never made it through the night, however, usually breaking and being retied several times, which only made it tighter. By the time we got home, it had created a new part in my hair, running around my head just above my ears.
The sharp oval edge of the mask, pulled snug by the rubber band, dug into my chubby round face and created a seal which held in not only the plastic smell, but also the toxic Petri dish of hot breath and sweat building up inside. There was usually a small slit across the molded mouth and two eye holes which never seemed to line up with my actual line of sight and provided almost no relief or fresh air from the oppressive heat and moisture. On even the coldest Halloween nights, I staggered around the streets under the delirium of growing heat exhaustion, pushed on only by the promise of the goodies slowly collecting in the bottom of the pillowcase I carried.
There is a particular excitement about walking up to a stranger’s house, knocking on the door and getting candy. You never know if the person will be happy to see you or maybe be that grumpy old man you’ve heard about who grabs little kids and feeds them to his Doberman. The air is full of mystery and the rustle of the leaves whisper to you as you walk. It’s dark, and in the distance you can see little clusters of other creepily dressed trick or treaters, passing under streetlights and disappearing in the shadows.
Mrs. McClain, a short, sweet widow lady who lived just across the street, always made popcorn balls for us, wrapping them in plastic wrap and tying them with ribbon. She’d have other candy too, and not the cheap stuff. She gave us full size candy bars, like Almond Joy (which was my favorite), or hands full of Hershey Kisses. As I got older I realized that she had two bowls of candy; one for the regular trick or treaters and one for the Warford kids.
When we got home, we’d dump our candy out on the den floor and wade through our treasures, separating them into the good stuff and the stuff that would go back in the bag for a day when we were really desperate. The rare packs of M & M’s, Snickers and Reese Cups barely made it into the good pile without being eaten immediately, while Necco Wafers, Dots, and those bizarre orange Circus Peanuts were pushed aside to be experimented with and thrown out later.
Candy Corn fell into an in-between ranking. They didn’t have a lot of flavor, but at least they were easy to eat and could be made into a game, of sorts. My goal while eating Candy Corn was to try and dissect the three unique colors (white, orange and yellow) evenly with my teeth. After all these years, on the rare occasion that I eat candy corn, I still eat them the same way.
These days, we’re serious about our trick or treating. We drive to high volume, high yield areas. We plan our attacks with the precision of a military exercise. Costumes ideas are more elaborate and often unified in theme. Although our two older kids have outgrown the act of begging for candy (at least from strangers), they still dress up and go with us. It’s a family event we all enjoy and look forward to each year. I hope their memories of Halloween are as special as mine are.
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