30/10/2024
HALLOWEEN IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD 1951 - 1959
PROLOGUE: WARNING SIGNS
It would happen without notice. Sometime in early August, as we would be perusing the Five & Dime for the latest monster cards or comic books or whatever, a disturbing harbinger of the imminent demise of our freedom would be made manifest in the form of new displays of three ring binders, plastic book covers and the latest in pencil boxes. It could mean only one thing: school days were on the horizon; the day after Labor Day, to be exact. No more adventures in the fields and forest that surrounded our neighborhood. No more freedom to roam. No, the rest of the year would be endless months of shortening days, endless nights and a grueling regiment of homework. Only a sprinkling of holidays would break up the monotony. And they were few and far between; hardly enough to have a curative effect.
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HALLOWEEN NIGHT - THE RUN FOR THE CANDIES
It was a few weeks later, maybe even less than two, that I would get the first reminder that Halloween was on the horizon. It came during my weekly visit to Richardson’s Variety Store, my ten-cent Tiffany’s. Amidst the aisle of endless uselessness would be this year’s selection of Halloween masks, monster makeup, false teeth and gnarly rubber hands, some with hard plastic claws. A good mask could run a kid at a minimum of thirty-five cents; one that covered the whole head with a bit of fake hair and a detailed paint job would be at least a dollar or more. It was clearly time for me to think hard and examine my financial resources if I wanted to maximize those few precious hours we kids had on Halloween. Like a squirrel scrounging for the last remaining nuts in Autumn, it would be our only chance for a bountiful haul of sweets and candy until Christmas. And to a kid Christmas was always a millennium away.
When I was young, so much younger than today, important decisions like what my Halloween costume was to be was sole purview of my parents, actually my mom. From about my third year until the sixth she would make my costume. Too often they were too cute for my taste, way too cute, even to a four-year-old like myself. A clown outfit, so well sewn that Caruso would have been happy to wear it. A chipmunk, Pinocchio. Maybe an adorable black cat. The only one I really approved of was the one of Mr. Rivets, a robot who had its own tv show on Channel 3 WPTZ, in Philadelphia at the time. Like all tv kid shows it was done on the cheap, which meant that replicating his suit would be well within the confines of our limited budget and abilities. A 3-foot square cardboard box, some gray trousers and workman’s gloves all spray painted gray. Sneakers wrapped in tinfoil. A sweatshirt for the arms.
The head would prove problematic, but one which mom was able to solve with a trip to the local ice cream emporium. It was a small shop, at the bottom of a dip in the road across from the tiny drug store; both locally owned, both manned by their proprietors. A demure smile was all it took for her to wheedle an empty five-gallon tub from the manager. A little more silver paint, two holes cut to accommodate my eyes and a few bits of wire and bolts and I was good to go…
…except I couldn’t see a damn thing and the foil covered shoes didn’t last past the first house. But the costume impressed and I brought home a cracking good haul that would last at least for a few days beyond expectations -- if I paced myself.
Which I didn’t.
When I turned seven, I took matters into my own hands. I was earning fifteen cents a week now by picking up my toys without being told and emptying the three trash baskets strategically spaced around our two-bedroom home (I had my own room; Mom and Dad had to share). In a little over three weeks I had banked enough for a pirate hat, a stick-on scar and an oddly bent plastic saber. Mom made me some cardboard silver buckles to hide the laces on last year’s old black Sunday shoes and together we picked out a somewhat-convincing wardrobe for a three-foot tall buccaneer. I was all set!
Accepted etiquette of the day permitted no Trick or Treating before dusk or until after dinner, whichever came later. I ate — hurriedly — in costume, my route already planned out in my head. As custom dictated, I would be accompanied by my dad who, also following protocol, would leave me on my own to close the deal. Any home that had the porch light on was fair game. I would eagerly hurry up, knock and open my bag. Dad would be standing at the end of the walkway, cigarette in hand, and give an appreciative wave to the other dads out with their progeny. Invariably it was the man of the house who opened the door. He would stand aside, indifferently holding a bowl of candy while the wife took over feigning confusion as to who this could possibly be at their door.
But now it was time to get down to business: I made my promise that nothing untoward would happen to their home for the price of a Snickers. This would instantly be met with the desired reward. There was no haggling, no demand to do a “trick;” just an expedited exchange of candy for the comfort that nothing would happen to their property. It was the old mob shakedown bit writ small, a performance as predictably executed as any kabuki play.
I kept up a furious pace, one that only accelerated with each additional home: the bold knock on the door, the announcement of demands – “trick or treat” – then the quick “thank you” shouted over my shoulder as I was off to the next house.
Within ninety minutes it was over. Porch lights began turning off; front doors closed; curtains tightly drawn.
It would be an impossibly long time before I would be afforded any opportunity to return my candy coffers to safe levels. In but a few weeks ̶- no, DAYS! ̶- it was clear that my own starving time would begin in earnest, my repository reduced to its dregs, left with only a few Raisinets, Mary Janes and stale circus peanuts. Once all that was gone, restocking would have to wait until at least Easter at the earliest. And that was months away…
-30-
Copyright George Stewart
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