I spent the first nine years of my life roaming up and down a street that seemed so wide and so long. Twenty years later, I was astonished to find that it stretched only a half-mile and it barely fit two lanes. That strip of bumpy asphalt was my university—it taught me about friendship, pity, despair, initiative, and laughter.
I grew up in a halcyon time when children roved freely without fear or adult supervision. As long as we appeared for meals and the 7 p.m. bubble bath, we were left to our own devices and adventure filled our days.
Growing up, I looked forward to Halloween more than I did Christmas. Treats aside, I was more interested in getting inside strangers’ homes, curious if my imaginings had been astutely founded. It would always surprise me to see who lived with whom. When we rang the buzzer, some kid from the schoolyard would open the door, and his mother, looking mystified, would proffer a bowl of Hershey's Kisses to all.
Sometimes, no one answered the bell—the house dark, shades drawn. Instinctively, I knew that somebody was home, though, shirking their responsibility for handing out the goodies.
Costumes were always homemade affairs and, proudly, we were the willing inventors of our disguises. Gypsies were a popular theme, and sometimes a spy in a raincoat, or a cat burglar dressed all in black. Most girls wanted to be princesses or ballerinas, and their fluffy pink costumes made me want to vomit.
One year, I oiled down my hair, glued on a mustache with Elmer’s, and wore my father's boots along with a friend’s too-big Boy Scout jacket. Adults would look at my regalia but no one guessed who I was, even when I did that “heil” part with a sweeping arm. Except my teacher, who lived one street over—she knew at once.
She took one look at my big leather belt and said, “This isn’t funny, Miss Joyce, and it’s just not done!” Years later I was thrilled to see that Jack Benny and Mel Brooks had done it.
My sister was a master of disguises. One year she was the Flying Nun. A choir robe was her habit, and a carefully constructed cardboard hat replicated the air-funneling contraption a la Sally Fields. So real were its proportions, she couldn't fit through most doorways, so as she stood outside in this apparatus, I brought the treats out to her.
Candy was a delightful perk to this night, and when we got home we’d overturn our jack-o’-lantern paper sacks, reveling in the mass of goodies spread out before us. Each of us would make the dive for our favorites and haggle over who owned what. Inevitably, a few of us got stuck with an apple or orange, and these unwanted trespassers made their way to our mothers’ kitchen counters where they invariably reappeared next day in our Roy Rogers lunch boxes.
We all collected for UNICEF then. Millions of pennies would flood the coffers of this charity as we all took pride in doing our part for the children of the world. I always threw in the nickels I had earned as the neighborhood errand runner. With all that night’s treats, I felt magnanimous: take a little, earn a little, give a little.
Today’s kids stroll door-to-door escorted by hoards of chaperoning parents, innocence and UNICEF (almost) gone. Some elders march right up to the door with their youngsters and scrutinize the treats before they even hit today’s plastic candy collectors.
Many kids are chauffeured around, and under their generic molded masks, somnolent looks on everyone’s face accompany the store-bought flameproof Spiderman or newest mass-merchandised costume. For many kids, this beloved evening has become bromidic compared to the newest PlayStation game.
One 7-year-old appeared at my sister’s door in his Sunday best suit, hair parted and slicked, with an oversized watch dangling from his arm. She leaned forward, “And who are you little boy?” He ignored her. With a serious face, he spoke into his watch: “Bond, James Bond.” So much for the Cartoon Network.
Today, 12-year-olds hang around the curb yakking on cellular phones while their babyish siblings make the rounds. Only the very young are still captivated by this night. Recently, a small band of 5-year-olds giggled their way up to my front door. When I asked the Eveready Bunny what he was, he silently shuffled across my living room in robotic motions, an actor’s intensity on his painted face. When I held out the bowl of candy bars, he quickly swooped up two and they disappeared inside his plastic pumpkin. Out of character, he grinned and said, “Thanks lady!”
In my small Connecticut town, I had pushed the treat-or-treat night out for as long as I could. We had moved to a “better” neighborhood when I was 12, and I was thrilled at the prospect of taking a snoop inside new homes. All was going well, when toward the end of the evening, a wizened old man hobbled to the door, took one look at my spy’s black fedora and oversized khaki-colored raincoat, and announced the death knell: “Aren't you a bit old for this stuff?”
Withdrawing my sack, I stammered, “This will be my last year, Sir.” And sadly, it was.
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in Connecticut. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
