Musing About Halloween

by Lesley Misko

Halloween is in the rear-view mirror, so it’s time to take inventory. The Halloweens in my life have been varied, much like the candy in the little paper bags people used to distribute to trick-or-treaters.

In elementary school, my Halloweens were a civic responsibility. In school, we saved the small milk cartons that came with our lunches, washed them, and covered them with special shiny orange labels that said, “Trick-or treat for UNICEF,” the United Nations Children's Fund. We wore no costumes and went door to door in the mostly six-story apartment buildings in the neighborhood. We rang doorbells and said, “Trick-or-treat for UNICEF.” Realizing our goal was worthy, people added coins to our container, and we brought our collection to school, certain we had done something of importance. 

The next Halloween that haunts my memories is my freshman year in college, when my 2 ½ year boyfriend took me to a party at a veterinary hospital. Yup, you read that right: an animal hospital. The guy’s buddy’s brother worked there. Of course, it was closed at night, and the party was in the spacious waiting room. It was definitely unique. This sounds like material for a funny story—but it wasn’t. There was lots of drinking going on; I was underage and not prone to drink anyway. We ended up in his car, and he got “fresh” with me. (That was the word we used back then.) When I refused to get with the program, he suddenly sobered up, drove me home without saying a word, sat silently while I got out of the car and walked into the building. I cried my guts out for hours. Remember: it was 2 ½ years. I knew I’d never hear from him again, … and I didn’t. Not ‘til many years later, but that’s a different story. 

After that, I wrote off Halloween, but it redeemed itself when I began teaching. The morning after trick-or-treat, I felt happy to see that some students had obviously visited the garden apartment complex where I lived. They had soaped the glass panels at the building’s entrance with the names of two of the short stories we had studied in English class. A nervous first year teacher, I took that as a good sign. I figured they must like me well enough to bother.

But my best student Halloween story derives from ’94. At the ring of the doorbell, I opened the door to see a cowboy. Maybe four or five years old, he wore a cowboy hat, plaid flannel shirt, denim jeans, holster with a gun, and he held a large plastic orange pumpkin for his candy. He didn’t say a word, so I kept asking him questions. “Hi, do I know you?” “Are you a cowboy?” “Do you live in this neighborhood?” I went on… and on… to no avail. He didn’t say a word. Feeling badly about closing the door in his face, I put some candy in his pumpkin and said, “I’m going to close the door now.” Four high school students popped out of the shrubbery on either side of the door, screaming “trick-or treat” as they snapped a photo of my face when they revealed I had been talking to … a dummy. Uh-huh, a dummy stuffed with straw and a head that was a basketball. I had been talking to a dummy. Sigh.   

As the years passed, and especially after we retired, my husband got more into the spirit of Halloween. He began to take charge of filling the little paper bags with candy. He worked hard to make sure each bag had a well-balanced assortment. I thought it was nice of him to do all that, but then I caught on to what he was really doing: picking out the candy he liked and putting it aside to chow down on when I didn’t pay attention. That explained why Coconut Mounds and peanut butter cups were especially scarce in those little bags.

Halloween this year was tough. It was my third trick-or-treat without my husband. My son had somehow managed to be here the previous two years, but he wasn’t here this year either. At first, I considered turning off the lights and hiding. I just wasn’t up for smiling and greeting kids and their parents lurking in the darkness with flashlights. I also worried about Leo the cat escaping when I opened the door.

But my son had purchased an enormous bag of candy at COSTCO, and the last thing I needed was to eat it. So, I grudgingly, dragged a chair to the garage door, closed another door to keep Leo captive, and I distributed candy even though my heart wasn’t really into it … and I was glad I did!  

I met two lovely BASH grads, fathers now in their thirties. It tugged at my heart to see their youth and devotion to their kids. They were well-spoken and hard working, eager to carve out a good life for their families and forthemselves. One of the guys shared where he lived: “If you need anything, let me know,” he repeated several times with sincerity. I wondered if my husband and I were truly once that young and filled with dreams and plans. I found myself hoping that these guys treasure every moment of that night having fun with their children. Life has taught me that like the candy in the little bags, you never know what the next Halloween will bring.

Now that I have inventoried the memories, I think I’ll check out how many Kit Kats I still have. I kind of like those.

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