Trick-or-Treat of Long Ago

It only takes a whiff of leaf mold and a chill in the air to transport me back to the thrill of Halloweens past and trick-or-treating. It was a wild, scary, heart-stopping few hours where kids were all manner of things and parents stayed home. Almost as soon as the back-to-school “blush” wore off, kids were talking about what they were going to be for Halloween. Cinderella, Snow White, Bugs Bunny, the Lone Ranger and standards like a witch, ghost, hobo or gypsy were typical. Some got costumes from the local department store, but mostly kids patched something together and threw on a plastic face mask that got hot and sweaty in no time. One had to alternate flipping the mask up on the forehead to breathe, and then flipping it back down as soon as you hit the front porch of your next candy “score.” If one’s costume didn’t require a mask, the options were pretty much Mom’s lipstick and eyebrow pencil for candy-red cheeks, freckles, mustaches, warts, and what-have-you. Interestingly, mothers seemed to get right into the spirit of it and not mind their kids manhandling their make up or costume jewelry; siblings were not always so generous.

As soon as it got dark, and the little kids were finishing up, the bigger kids grabbed their pillow case and flashlight and headed out. We all had a friend or two to walk with and a plan for getting to the most houses. We knew which house gave out which candy: fireballs, bit-o-honey, lifesavers; one older couple always gave out comic books, which was cool, but then they wanted to TALK to you! Yikes; no time for that! While our primary goal was getting as much candy as possible, there were all kinds of dangers – “tricks” -- to avoid. Dodging the boys with their cans of shaving cream, avoiding the kid who had staked out the perfect place to launch water balloons on unsuspecting “gangs” below, and remembering to hang on tight to your UNICEF coin box, which you had to turn in to school the next day, made for a pretty wild evening.

I have a vivid memory of racing across a newly seeded backyard, trying to elude Dracula and a viscious looking hobo intent on intercepting my friend and me after we had politely accepted the Nestle crunch bars from a brand new neighbor. A pretty good little sprinter, I was instantly bogged down in the deep, soft topsoil and my Caspar costume went limp around me, my loot bag tangling between my legs. I was terrified of two things: my pursuers catching me, or the neighbor turning on their floodlight. Fortunately the would-be assailants turned back, but unfortunately for me, I ran right into a pricker bush at the edge of the yard, and worse, I lost my friend who had darted off in a different direction. Oh well; it was all part of what could happen on this wild night and these were good stories to tell on the playground!

I made it home by curfew with a bulging pillowcase to find Dad stretched out on the couch watching television while Mom cleaned up the apple bobbing area by the front door. She insisted that the kids really loved bobbing for apples. Privately, I wasn’t so sure anyone really wanted to put their face in a tub of cold water and get their costume wet, but at least she wasn’t handing out popcorn balls. My older sister arrived shortly after, out of breath and excited about narrowly missing getting “creamed” by Jeffrey Sharpe, the most mischievous boy in the neighborhood. The boys were still out, probably walking back from the Nelsons who lived near “Transylvania” along the more heavily wooded end of the lake. Only full-size Nestle crunch bars could entice any kid to walk along that dark stretch, even with a friend, on Halloween. Sure enough, here they came, slamming the kitchen door behind them, half laughing, one accusing the other of some infraction like running on ahead with the flashlight.

Dad watched us troop by and said, “Hey! How about a Hershey bar? You can spare one, can’t you?”
“O…k...,” we’d grumble, thinking about the high risks we’d just taken to get the precious chocolate. And then he’d almost always say something along the lines of how we should just dump all our candy in a big bowl…and that’s about as far as he got because he faced instant anarchy! He laughed, having gotten the reaction he wanted, and suddenly the energy drained out of us and we could hardly drag ourselves up the stairs to wash our grungy faces and fall into bed. Another exciting Halloween was over, but we still had our stories to tell and candy trading to look forward to after school the next day.

Country Afternoons

Chickens scurried as we burst from the station wagon, impatient after our long drive to our grandparents’ home in northwestern Connecticut. “Are we there yet?” had finally given way to an excited tingle in my tummy as I recognized the underpass, the sharp corner and then the dirt road bordered by a dark, pine forest. Seven rambunctious children were eager to explore, and we had one afternoon to do everything while the adults talked. Some of us would futilely give chase to the ever-elusive chickens, while others made a mad dash for the hammock strung between two gnarled apple trees, buzzing with bees. “I got it FIRST!” split the quiet scene, and a tussle inevitably ensued until something of greater interest was spied. Mom would remind us of our manners while wrangling her brood into the old bungalow.

Everything about the house was small and contained: low ceilings, cramped kitchen with the rooster canisters neatly lined up on the counter, shiny worn linoleum; but there was my grandmother, setting the table in the small dining room, sunlight streaming in a large picture window. Hazel Wilson Wildey was a tall, heavy-set woman clad in an apron over her faded, knee-length, cotton dress. Her house smelled of good, home cooking, and she had a kind smile. All of this registered in my child’s mind, but truthfully, the old house was merely a passing through place, and the obligatory hug against her ample bosom was the “toll” we paid as we inched towards freedom outdoors. Once past Grandma, we filed through the narrow passage to the small living room where Grandpa pretended to be asleep in his overstuffed chair near the side door. “Hello Grandpa!” we’d say, and fidget before we tried to tiptoe past. We were all a little scared of him because he was tough as leather and had a glass eye. Almost without fail, his arm would shoot out and whoever was closest was hauled onto his lap for a brief, toothless interrogation. Finally he’d release us and shoo us out the door to an exciting world beyond: the willow tree and old well with iron pump, a large hay barn down the road with a mow from which to jump, the horse pasture and dirt lane to an old cemetery, the railroad tracks and the Housatonic River. How could we possibly explore all of that in a few hours’ time?

We must’ve split off in different directions as it was nearly impossible for us to agree. I remember bravely putting pennies on the railroad track although we had no idea when the train was due. Someone put their ear to the rail to listen and wisely reported it was coming, while others tried to run the ties. Did we ever see it pass by? My memory of being frightened by the large Palomino must have obliterated any train memories. I had taken the short cut to the tracks across the horse pasture, noting that the horse seemed to be fully occupied grazing a long way away. Midway across, or so it seemed, the horse noticed me running and came at a gallop. I burst into tears and turned, on trembling legs to make a beeline for the fence, no matter the burdocks, horse "nuggets" or mud, spurred on by the heavy tread and snuffling following me. Did I catch sight of my parents and grandparents having a laugh as they watched me out the picture window? Quite possibly.

I remember peering down the well (although we were warned to stay away from it) and dropping stones in to hear them splash far below…and the enclosed secret world under the willow where I dreamed. The gentle movement of the many slender branches when there seemed to be no breeze, convinced me of fairies.

Once I got to ride in the ox cart while my older brother “drove” and my grandfather led his team down the dirt road. I remember deciding to explore the dark pine forest along the dirt road on my own, and scrambled up the embankment. None else had wanted to check out the spooky woods with me and I had a point to prove. Stepping into the shadows, I was scared at the difference: the cool air and sudden hush felt alien compared to my sunny, friendly maple and beech woods at home. Was it a crow that finally persuaded me to end my exploration, or did someone call me back? I hadn’t gone but a few feet in and was glad to step out of the dark world of the tall pines, back into the sunlight. My relief was only slightly dimmed by the skinned knee I got when I fell down the embankment.

No doubt we got called back in for Sunday dinner, with a stop in the tiny bathroom to “wash up.” My Scots-German grandmother’s meal was probably a roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans, followed by a pie or cake. We were crowded around her table, both leaves in, with not much room to pull back our chairs. In my mind’s eye it almost looks like a Norman Rockwell painting of “Sunday Dinner.”

We were permitted a little more outdoor play – “but don’t run off!” -- while the adults talked some more and Grandpa smoked a pipe. All too soon we were called back from our adventures to say our good-byes and pile back into the station wagon for our long ride home. Two of us were allowed to lie down in the way back of the car where we dozed and eventually heard the steady rhythm of the asphalt highway bringing us closer to our warm beds and dreams of the country.

Caretaking Memories

In the busy task-oriented pace of my day working with elders, I encountered an unexpected gift. I stepped into the sunroom and noticed John sitting on the wicker love seat. He looked up and smiled at me. "You've picked a nice spot," I said, as I moved to the empty chair next to him. He had an old photo album in his lap, and I was curious. Time slowed as I sat down. He carefully opened the faded green front cover, embossed with his and his wife's name in gold, and began to talk haltingly about his wife. "She was younger than me by many years…four…no, three. We met in college." He was a widower and still somewhat surprised that his Mary had died first…"just went, while I sat next to her with my hand on her wrist." He took my wrist in his large hand. A moment passed, then he released my wrist to turn the page. I looked at the early color photos, vintage 1960s, and saw an All American family standing next to a swimming pool. There he was, very tall, in dark swim trunks and sporting black framed glasses and a crew cut. Next to him was his pretty wife, hair in a neat flip, a modest one piece swimsuit on her trim, petite figure. Three children stood in size order next to her: two girls and a boy, all tow heads and grinning at the camera. "Is this your family?" I asked. "Oh. I don't know. We had two girls and a boy…." He turned the page and there were photos of a large, brown, shingled house and various indoor shots of people gathered in the kitchen or living room or den. One photo showed Mary half turning toward the camera, a wide smile on her face. "We met in college. We were married a long time…forty or so years, I think. I can't believe how lucky I was that she loved me." No tears, just a wistful smile as he held onto a memory and gently closed the album.

This won't be the last time John shares his album or the narrative of his life and his beloved wife. But I'm his ally now against memory loss. I will speak to him these words he shared and in doing so, will breathe life into those fading memories if just for an instant, creating a flicker of happiness in his day.