For one moment I have to lay aside all the Halloween hoopla. I know *sigh*, it’s Day of the Dead, but to me it’s ‘O Happy Day free candy.
I don’t know why they call it “Trick or Treat.” I was solely interested in the treats and would have been hard pressed to conjure up a trick for any neighbor demanding a performance in exchange for sugar. I always said ‘thank you,’ but I was a take the candy and run kind of girl.
My first years of Trick or Treat (that I remember) were in Metairie, Louisiana on Gillen Street. Houses were wall to wall and there were loads of children. When Mom and Dad moved into the neighborhood they were told to expect 300 little goblins. In addition, the hospitable southern way included parents offering an open bar for any in-need adults. I didn’t know that dirty little secret until dinner last Sunday when Mom and Dad recounted Halloween in The Big Easy. Let me be clear. My mom does not drink. Dad has his one Scotch every night and just in case company drops by there is a tip-the-box of Franzia Chardonnay in the fridge. My parents are not boozers. Therefore, my first reaction to the Halloween Open Bar was ‘You gotta be kidding? What, did the adults just clink the ice cubes in their empty glasses waiting for a refill?’ I still sort of don’t believe Mom and Dad, but hey, it was New Orleans.
Mom made me a jester outfit for first grade Halloween. By second grade I positively wanted to be a gypsy, and I had to have the bitchin’ box costume with the plastic face and elastic back. My parents indulged me in the store-bought extravagance. I’m 53 years old, and I still remember that costume as the coolest thing, ever!
By my third grade year, dad decided to go into business for himself and relocate us back to Omaha, Nebraska. This courageous step toward building his dream certainly didn’t factor in how much I loved Halloween in New Orleans and the double bonus of Mardi Gras beads and baubles.
Though it was not N’awlins style, I was relieved that the candy tradition was upheld in the cold wasteland of Nebraska. We moved to a delightful subdivision called Westgate that overflowed with small starter homes and big Irish Catholic families. Let it be heard that the magic of Halloween was not found in spooky costumes and scary neighbors (who gave out apples).
The magic began when my sister and I returned home from a night of door to door candy solicitation; we would boldly throw the bounty on the bedroom floor, sorting, organizing, and assessing the pillage. It wasn’t just candy, it was a commodity to be shrewdly leveraged.
My older sister and I have many similarities, including a general dislike for chocolate. Scary, huh? With so many giving out bite-size chocolate bars, trading stock on the 79th Street Exchange Floor was fast and furious. I would begin the evening by obsessively/compulsively sorting the loot into like piles. From there I would tally my assets and make a play for the all important tiny roll of Necco candies. My older sister, who is now an international banker, surely swindled me out of all of my Smarties. And even though neither of us are chocolate fans, the rare and prized Cherry Mash was never touched or traded, but held in awe as the holy grail of all midnight treats. Since I developed my sinister sense of humor at an early age (blame it on Halloween), somewhere in the madness I would pick up one of those cheap, hideous pieces of chewy peanut butter wrapped in black or orange paper and say, “Who gives this out?”
Years passed. Our much younger sister Adie came of age. We moved to a neighborhood that gave out better candy. Since by then my older sister and I were classified as too old to collect treats, we saw to it that Adie was shuttled to as many doors as possible. Upon returning home, the time-honored tradition of the bedroom floor trade began. Adie would eat the yellow Necco’s out of the roll and generously pass the rest on to me. I’m certain that she probably didn’t savor a Smartie until her adult years. Even though Adie got the short end of the deal after we bartered her bag full, we did teach her everything we knew about the sort, the trade, and the win.
Move over Harry Potter. Sweet Jesus…my sisters are such a treat!
Key Notes:
- I know this blog is about ‘finding shelter in the storm of cancer.’ For me, part of that shelter includes days that I just don’t talk about cancer.
- The last two years of Megan’s life were consumed by radiation, chemo, and doctor’s appointments. Treatment was her full-time job. Nonetheless, Megan wanted to feel like a normal person and was so grateful for conversations that did not swirl around The Big “C.”
On a Lighter Note:
- Thinking my mom let us keep all that candy in our rooms? Think again.
- Neither Mom or Dad ever went Trick or Treating. They were children of The Great Depression and families in their neighborhood(s) did not have money for candy.
- My younger sister Adie, who heads up a high school English Department, always has a drawer full of treats in her desk. Year round, any student in the school that respectfully comes to her desk and says, “Trick or Treat” can open the drawer and take one piece of candy.
- Although Joe is half my age (the art student that lives with me), he understands the commodity of candy. They had their own New York Candy Exchange, and somewhere in the madness a brother would hold up a piece of candy and shout out, “Who gives out licorice?”
- I knew I was pregnant with my son Ryan when I craved a Snickers Candy Bar. I don’t know why I wasted money on an at-home pregnancy test. Must Have Chocolate! was a sure sign of pregnancy.
- I am completely frightened by the fact that I sort of look like the above picture of Gypsy Val….short dark hair, big earrings, and I still love cobalt blue batik!
- In fourth grade my older sister crawled to the end of my bed in the dark of the night and carefully untucked the top sheet. When I was sound asleep, she reached under the covers and firmly grabbed both my ankles, launching me into screaming terror. I now know there is no safe place, including under the covers at night.
On a Final Note:
- Adie, feeling like we cheated you out of all your candy? Remember, you got the convertible sports car. We shared the Volkswagen bug.
I had only seen glimmers of her. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I’m only allowed to ask my son once a year if he has a girlfriend. I used that ticket by January 3, 2011. Because of my lack of self-control, I was moved into information prison, with no possibility for parole and no privileges to pry into the private life of my son.
