A Halloween Story

Halloween, 1960-something. It was the first year my mother lifted the ban on Halloween, and let me go trick or treating.

When we lived in our house, I was the one who opened the door for the ghosts and pirates, witches and clowns. There were no Disney princesses, or for that matter, any store-bought costumes. Moms made all the costumes in our neighborhood. Well, not my mom. She didn’t like Halloween. She didn’t like strangers coming to the door, and she didn’t like me going out of the house, except to school. I accepted my role as She-Who-Passes-The-Candy with great enthusiasm. I jumped up and down when the doorbell rang, oohed and aahed at all the costumes, and remembered to say, Happy Halloween!

A few years later, we moved into an apartment complex full of children. I couldn’t bear to be the only nine year old passing out candy, so I asked my mother if this year I could please go trick or treating. I was surprised and excited when she said I could go for an hour.

An hour! One whole hour of getting to be like everyone else! One whole hour of freedom!

One whole hour to pretend I was a regular kid who’d done this before.

My costume was of course, last minute. I had no idea I’d ever actually need one. The year before, my mother put together an “Indian girl” costume for the school play. She suggested I wear that. It consisted of two brown towels sewn together, and a headband with a feather sticking out of it. I wore my saddle shoes. (In the play I had bare feet.) At the last minute my mother added some red lipstick streaks on my cheeks, and there I was: Politically Incorrect Native American Girl. In the 60's no one blinked.

I was sent out with instructions not to eat any of the candy until I got home. And instead of a good sized pillow case most of the neighborhood kids used for a treat bag, ( it looks greedy, my mother said) I was sent out with a small paper bag to collect my treats.

Trick or Treat!

I must have said it fifty times in that hour. I loved being part of the swarm of children as we made our way into building after building, knocking on all the apartment doors. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

A grey car pulled up to the sidewalk. It was my mother. I had lost track of time, it had been well over an hour. Get in the car, she hissed. My brief time in Halloween Heaven was over.

I was sure I’d be punished, but just before bed, my mother let me choose two pieces of candy from my small, bulging paper bag. The rest of the candy would be thrown out. I chose something called “non-pareils,” although I didn’t know that at the time. I thought they were so pretty. I’d never seen them before, but I knew my mother would approve of my choice because they were so small.

I popped one in my mouth, then the other, holding onto the pleasure for as long as possible.

Many years later I looked up the word, “non-pareil,” and was delighted to learn that it meant “none better,” or “without equal.” In all my nine years, that delicious hour (and a half) of freedom was truly without equal. To be out in the night, free and untethered. It would be six more years before I got that heady taste of freedom again.

And that time, I just kept going.