Pictures of America - Tricks and Treats

Avoid the houses that are dark. Don't go to Louisiana Street.

I was at a colleagues for a young one's birthday last weekend and in cleaning up, I noticed the remnants of a bag of Halloween candy, especially the Lemonheads, the little guys favorite. It made me smile.

Trick or Treating was big in my house, even as it came with its own set of rules. Done on Halloween, not a Friday or Saturday or what was convenient or politically correct. School night be damned, we were out and we were going to get our loot.

When I was really little, it was the purchased costume, as I got older we were encouraged to make our own, to save money sure, but also to spark some creativity.

As an adult, I do the same though it's a rare party I'll go to, preferring the company of just one or two people, or even myself, to a crowd. But I was invited to a costume party at a doctors house and it was friends I wanted to see. Most of the folks there were medical. I didn't know until the last minute if I could go so what to do for a costume. My "date" was a friend who said he'd go with me, former military, I had him bring over a pair of fatigues. I wore the top half, which fit just down to mid thigh,with flesh colored tights beneath. He wore the bottom half with combat boots and a flesh colored T shirt.

We showed up and the guests, most from the hospital, said. "What are YOU two?"

Upper and Lower GI !

We spent $0 and won best costume.

Then there was a party I went to about fifteen years ago as Monika Lewinsky. Blue velvet dress, black shoulder length wig and a cigar. . at a governors house. It was quite the hit.

As adults we can still laugh, even if it's sometimes just at ourselves. But the memories this last week of Halloween, months after the last leaf of fall had dropped, were about the candy.

When I went Trick or Treating, I went with a brother who was a year and a half older than I. No adults tagged along, children out in a town of just a few thousand people in the late 60's were not at risk at the hands of adults. We were given strict instructions though. We could only do our block and the next one over. The third block, Louisiana Street might as well have had a sign "there be dragons". We were limited to where we could go but we had a fabric tote bag that would hold a LOT of goodies. There would be some homemade treats, but the mom's were smart, they put little commercial address labels on the wrapped treat so our mom's knew immediately who sent it and if it would be safe to eat.

But the occasional popcorn ball aside, but we were after was the commercial loot. Hersey's and Tootsie Rolls, Fruit Stripe gum, Sugar Daddies, Smartees, Milk Duds (still a favorite), Idaho Spud (chocolate flavored marshmallow dipped in chocolate and rolled in coconut), Good and Plenty, Skybar, Nestle Crunch, Dots, Pixy Sticks, Big Hunk, Boston Baked Beans (those were given away, I still don't like them), Gobstoppers, SweetTarts (more, please), Charms, Mike and Ike's, those little candy necklaces, Necco wafers, Slo Pokes (still like those but haven't seen in ages), Jolly Ranchers, Chic-o-Sticks, Bazooka gum.

The only thing Mom wouldn't let us keep was the Sugar Daddies. For some reason she thought those would just ruin our teeth and would hide them away, to be rationed out one by one over time. Usually however, after a month she'd forget about them. We'd run stealthy espionage missions into the kitchen until we found her hiding spot and would capture them and hide them in our secret fort to ruin our teeth at our own darn pace.

But the trick or treating wasn't just about the candy. It was being out, after dark, by ourselves, just kids, with scores of other kids, flashlights in hand. We'd trudge off like miners, Mom waving a little goodbye of forlorn assurance as we headed out. Out in front of us, two whole blocks, dozens of houses, the darkness slung low with lights, the night blowing cool and full of promise.

One year I was a ghost, that year a lot of kids were ghosts, the lumber mill having laid off a bunch of men, and money for costumes sorely lacking. An old sheet, a couple of holes cut for eyes and you were a ghost. Pity the poor kid who was the pink ghost, he was going to get flattened like a pancake next time the boys played dodgeball. In our garb, we hovered over places of play, breathing sugar fueled dreams like air, ashen figures gliding through the night on silent feet.

To each porch that had a light on we'd go, candy bag in hand. Trick or Treat, though with my front tooth missing, more like Twik or Tweat. Still that missing tooth got me extra candy (oh aren't you cute). The houses weren't decorated up the way they are now, but on the porch would often be a lone jack o lantern, eyes shining from a candle or some fake cobwebs along the porch (those aren't fake! ack ack ack, get it out of my hair!)

We'd pass each other wondering just who was that superhero, who was that under the Casper mask? We scurried along, hands waving, quick steps in time to the chatter of chilled breath, the blocks of a post war suburb stretching out, the dim lights of small town America. As ghosts, cowboys, baseball players and Superman, we covered ground, drawing in deep breaths of it all, unutterably aware of how brief this night would be. I think even as kids we know that too soon we'd have to put this other life, this other identify away, as we melted anonymously back into our regular life, with wistful longing and the taste of sweetness on our lips.

One house, always anticipated, had its owner dress like a witch, press on warts and all, and she'd have a steaming cauldron of dry ice and spooky music playing. That was the best part of that whole street. We'd approach the door, it would open with a haunting creak, the interior of the room blooming with light, a flutter of slender muscles in our arms as we held out our bags, trying to show we weren't really scared. That's just some kids Mom. . right? She really doesn't turn into a witch every Halloween? Then she would laugh, more of a honeyed laugh than a cackle, blue eyes, sparkling, holding us silent with her lifted hand from which would pour down sweet goodness, not toads or bats or other scary things.

Then, too soon, we were done with our two blocks, but not near our curfew. Up ahead, in the blackness, the third block. Louisiana Street. Forbidden.

We circled back and forth, other kids from the block gathering. Walking back and forth along the curb of the streets end as if at a wake for a perfectly tangible body. It did not go unnoticed, the other children coming from its murky depths, none maimed in any way we saw.

Why did our Mom's tell us not to come to this street? It looked safe enough. We held our candy bags, already bulging but still with room left and looked at it, in a sugar laden swoon of agonized longing. It will never be this way again, it's just ONE street. So we advanced, trudging up the steps to that first house, looking over our shoulders as if we could already see our Mom scolding us. We hit about six more houses, with other kids from our street, before as a group we agreed to go back, swearing each other to secret, blood brothers, blood oaths (even if the blood was Pixy Stick food coloring).


We then trudged on home, tired, happy, stuffing what candy we could get in around our masks as we waited to cross each street, looking left and right as we'd been taught, going in a group that had at least one flashlight. We were of a generation that for the most part obeyed our parents rules, for with disobedience came punishment. None of this "throw a temper tantrum in the store, I'll just BUY you that toy to get you to shut up". We were of the "spare the rod, spoil the child generation" and my backside met Mr. Ruler more than once. Making promises of punishment that never happens does not work. Doesn't work with rogue countries, doesn't work with children.

There up ahead, the lights of our little evergreen colored house. The wind had blown the clouds away, leaving a bright starry night, imaginary bat wings beating in the trees, a black cat crossing the road under the silver echo of the stars.

I stretched out my hand as if to clutch a star, to save a sweet fragment of the night to tuck into the book of that day. Too soon, time to go in, the night rushing past all too quickly, stolen moments of sweetness there in the dark. As children we live in the moment, not realizing that in recollection, we see how quickly it all went past, and holding a sweet piece of time with blurred eyes, you knew you had lost part of that, the innocence and the wonder, forever, even if memory remains.

Back home, we pour our bounty out onto the floor, Mom picking through it to throw out anything that was partially wrapped, checking the little note on the popcorn ball from Mrs. Erickson, grabbing the Sugar Daddies as if they were a live wire. We didn't mention the extra houses we went to.

Years later we told our Dad about the extra excursion to the banned street. He sort of smiled. I knew, we knew you would. But "why" I said, it was just a few more houses? But the street was wider, a lot more cars, a higher speed limit.

Mom was trying to protect us as best she could without actually going along with us. Too soon we'd grow up, finding that too much sugar can make you fat and roses only draw blood. She let us live with our innocence as long as she could, while preparing us to be fighters and risk takers.

Though I think I'll have an apple for breakfast, not candy, I'm still open for adventure. Soon I'll go out in search of my own Louisiana street, far away, but reachable, the lure too sweet to resist.