Yesterday Halloween dawned just like the day before: startling blue sky, sunshine piercing through red and yellow leaves. The clear air was particularly astounding because there had been so many weeks of dense, dreary, damp mist. When I was a little girl, Halloween was a festival night of prowling the neighborhood while collecting shopping bags full of homemade fudge, popcorn, and candy corn. We would of course be in costume; sometimes witches and ghouls were covered up with jackets if the evening was especially cold. After ringing neighbors’ doorbells, we would be invited inside so the adults could guess who we were and exclaim over our creativity.
I know that some towns celebrate Halloween on a Saturday night and impose a two-hour window of trick or treating time. Others have abolished door-to-door candy hunting, and have large parties in community centers or town halls. I have nothing against Halloween gatherings and I know that some cities have sadly been plagued with predators who quickly ruin a wholesome holiday, but there is something enticing about celebrating the old fashioned way, on the date that the occasion is meant to be observed. Similar situations are all those Monday holidays that have spawned long weekends instead of moments to pause and remember great leaders, explorers, and veterans.
My neighborhood of closely packed houses and streets entices groups of costumed kids who parade block to block with older siblings or parents. Adults lurking in the driveway, and children always being accompanied are signs of our safety conscious times, but I enjoy the fact that every year, they keep ringing our bell. There is a sense of excitement on Halloween day as neighbors carve their pumpkins and make sure their packaged candy supply is plentiful. The days of handing out cookies, apples, and packets of loose candy are long gone.
When they were in elementary school, my children brought friends home from school so they could get their homework finished early, eat pizza, and borrow my make up to put the finishing touches on their outfits. Now that my youngest is a recent college graduate living at home while he searches for a job, he enjoyed passing out treats to those who waited in our doorway. Impressed with their good manners as they asked: “Should I take one or two?” and then exclaimed “Thank you!” when they were encouraged to take a handful, he reminisced about his friend Nicky who carefully applied my lipstick to his lips and Tim who quietly studied alone in our dining room before joining the usual holiday revelry.
This year, we agreed that our first guest had the best costume. My daughter stopped by with her seven-month-old son who was snuggly dressed in a “tigger” suit complete with tail, white paws, and a hood with ears. Not only did he look totally adorable, but his mother had taught him to roar.
