Memories of Halloween
A Personal Essay
As a child, I couldn’t wait for Halloween. It was my favorite holiday because I was in direct control of how much loot I acquired, whereas during other holidays, I had to rely on the generosity of Santa and others. Whoever invented Halloween was brilliant!
There was no limit to the amount of candy I hoped to collect, so as soon as I could possibly get started, I was out the door. Trick-or-Treating was a sport to me--and I ran from house to house to reach as many as possible, till there were no more lights on and I had to return home.
I felt justified in this marathon effort, because the amount of candy I collected, and the amount I was allowed to eat, were two different things. We weren’t allowed so much as one piece of candy before coming home, because my mom had to inspect it for poison or razor blades. Which confused me because it seemed to me if someone were devious enough to dip your Tootsie Pop in arsenic, they'd probably re-wrap so it would look untouched.
The driving force behind my quest was that we had to give fully *half* of our haul to, oddly enough, the kids at the State Mental Hospital. In all my life I never heard of anyone else who did this. It wasn’t advertised or promoted at school, church, or on the television. I honestly have no idea how they came up with this idea, but nevertheless, upon returning home we'd dump out the spoils, line them up in order of importance, and then skim off the top half to keep ourselves, sacrificing the rest to the poor unfortunates who couldn’t participate in this annual free-for-all. It should go without saying that the kids at the mental hospital never saw any of my chocolate bars.
I assume my parents wanted to teach us selflessness, or at the very least, curb sweet tooth development, but that clearly backfired. Deprivation has a sneaky way of making you want more of the item, and so I became a bonafide sugaraholic. Starting in 3rd grade I worked in my school cafeteria so I could get a free lunch, and I remember the cook telling me that I'd probably have diabetes someday because of all the sweets I consumed (hail the chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon buns, and those tasty grape Popsicles!) I didn’t know what diabetes was, but I definitely wasn't concerned…I was an immortal nine-year old.
One thing I was grateful for was that I never had to wear the cheap-o box costumes sold at stores in the 1970’s;
if you’re old enough, you’ll remember these printed plastic-sheets that tied on, topped off with a mask with tiny nostril holes for breathing. Most kids wore the mask on top of their head like a hat because they were so uncomfortable, especially pokey eye holes. But fortunately, we had a good assortment of dress-ups at our house, including a few wigs which always added legitimacy to any outfit. We always came up with something so as to avoid resorting to the dreaded boxed costume option.The year I was eight Halloween came on a Sunday. Nothing could have been more devastating to me, a church-going, newly baptized, commandment-abiding Mormon girl, than to have my favorite holiday fall on a Sunday. I knew there was no way we'd be allowed to trick-or-treat on the Sabbath. My parents were surrounded by a pack of sad-faced kids, wondering how we could make it through the next year without our annual stockpile of goodies. Their solution? We’ll let you go trick-or-treating on Saturday instead! That’s what they do out in Utah. Which was great, except that we lived in California.
Perhaps they were embarrassed to be seen out on the 30th, but for whatever reason, instead coming with us they got our teenage neighbor Peggy to take us. Peggy had struggled with her weight for years, which was, in this situation, to our advantage. We knew she’d be a respectable escort because she was as interested in the free candy as we were.
We started making our way around the neighborhood, but it was noticeably slim pickings that night. Many people weren't even home, and those who were wondered why this pack of kids was at their door a day earlier than scheduled. We boldly announced "we can't trick-or-treat on Sunday" (some suspected us of planning to go out both nights--which was, in my mind, not a bad idea!). A number of them hadn't bought their candy yet. We got a lot of apologies and pennies that year. It was awkward, but I was a devoted disciple to sugar and would not be deterred.
I looked forward with great anticipation to sixth grade, when I would start junior high school at TeWinkle, which was named for the first mayor of our town years before. But despite my anticipation, that was a difficult time for me. Already wildly unpopular in grade school, the problem only got worse at TeWinkle. I struggled to fit in with not only the kids I'd known during grade school, but also all the new kids. Most of them seemed to be from well-off families, and they had an air of confidence about them that I simply couldn’t seem to acquire. I thought if I could just get myself into the popular group life would be a dream, and spent hours wondering how I could achieve that goal.
The year I was in sixth grade, the Rubik's Cube became enormously popular. Everyone had one, and contests were held regularly among students to see how fast the puzzle could be solved. I had a stroke of genius one day to be a Rubik's Cube for Halloween that year! We got a big, square cardboard box, a half-dozen florescent, glow-in-the-dark paints and some black tape to divide the colors into sharp, perfect squares. Holes were cut out for my head and arms, and the bottom was left open for my legs. It was a beautiful costume and I couldn't wait to wear it. Though sitting in my desk was, admittedly, awkward. But my costume was a big hit with my classmates. It was a happy day.
In seventh grade, I had a horrible time trying to decide what to be for Halloween. I yearned come up with something clever, even better than the Rubik’s Cube of the previous year. But by the afternoon before Halloween, I still hadn't settled on anything and was feeling discouraged. A friend of my mother's from church was over visiting my mom that day. Honestly, she wasn’t my favorite person; her son was one of my primary tormentors but she never intervened which made me wonder if she had something against me. Plus she usually just ignored me when I was around her. But this particular occasion she was being so friendly that I decided I perhaps I’d been mistaken (after all, her husband was a bishop, and everyone knows that only men with nearly perfect wives are made bishop!)
While mourning over my plight, my mom’s friend (who was one of those who always seemed to have advice for every situation) began telling me about some wonderful costumes she'd heard of. The first one got me really excited. She knew a man who had made a costume toilet out of cardboard for his child! The child stood in the tank part, which had holes for his head, arms, and feet. The bowl of the toilet extended out front and had a lid on it, which the child lifted up for people to put candy into. The whole thing was painted white, and a plunger was used as a hat. She said it was just darling! I was very sad that I'd heard about it so late; I'd have to wait till the following year to be a toilet, because there just wasn't time to put it together that day.
But her next idea was even more wonderful because it was totally doable! “Take a garbage bag, cut holes for your head and arms to go through, write the word "GLAD" on the front with masking tape in big letters, and go to school as a GLAD Bag!” Why hadn't I thought of such an idea? It was unique, quick and easy, and I had everything I needed. Plus, I was an upbeat, Glad-kinda-gal! Boy, she really did always have an answer for everything, that’s for sure.
I decided to wear a leotard and black tights underneath the bag, and I could also carry an extra GLAD bag for trick-or-treating at night...which, BONUS, would hold a massive amount of candy! This was going to be a big hit at school the next day; I could hardly wait!
Morning came and I eagerly donned my costume and rode my bike to school. It was always such fun to arrive at school on Halloween day and see all the other kids, especially when you had a great costume on yourself.
It started in the bike rack where some boys were just arriving as I was walking out. Some comment was made about a garbage bag. I ignored them, knowing inside they were just jealous because my costume was better than theirs (after all, how original is dressing up as a girl?). But as I walked to class, several other comments were tossed at me (I would soon wish that was all that got thrown that day), and I started feeling frustrated that they couldn't see that I was a GLAD bag, not a garbage bag.
First period in English class I took my seat. There was a garbage can a few feet in front of me in the corner, but when you have a bag sitting three feet closer, why bother with the can? All during class little wads of paper, erasers, tissues, and other trash were surreptitiously tossed at me. I couldn't wait for class to end so I could get away from there.
By lunch time I was wishing desperately that I had worn something else, but I kept my chin up. Our lunch yard was outdoors, so I got my lunch in the cafeteria and went to find a seat. I was specifically looking for somewhere to eat that wasn't anywhere near a garbage can. I found a table near the front of the lunch yard, in hopes that the lunch attendant would be able to see me and ward off any attempts to "help keep America looking good" through proper waste disposal.
Sometimes when you're a kid it seems like responsible adults are never there when you need them (eg: wasn't that pretty much Harry Potter’s whole problem?), and this lunch period was one of those days. Butter, soft from sitting in the sun, found it's way into my hair. A spoonful of mashed potatoes flew through the air and emergency-landed in my lap. It rained chocolate milk that sunny afternoon, followed by a hail storm of peas. When a ketchup-covered hot dog chunk hit me in the face I could no longer ignore the attacks. Humiliated, I ran for the bathroom. After cleaning myself up as much as I could, I called my mom and told her I was sick, got released, and rode my bike home.
After that, my zeal for Halloween diminished appreciably. Since I’d come home “sick” I couldn't go trick-or-treating that night…but somehow filling my enormous GLAD bag with candy didn't seem as important to me anymore. Halloween had lost some of it's magic.
Oh, in case you were wondering, No, I didn't go to school as an eighth-grade toilet the next year either. After what I’d been through, I had new insight into what being a toilet at a junior high school named WeTinkle, I mean TeWinkle, might be like.
