'Only Little People Frightened By the Long Night'

The calendar and tradition assure us that Halloween is October 31 but the voice of the people in our neighborhood as expressed through the “group chat” I have never looked at moved the celebration to October 29. The reasons are unclear. What this means in practical terms is two Halloweens and twice the candy. Those living outside the cul-de-sac, without access to the digital diktat, will arrive Tuesday evening as custom demands. We have a choice. We can buy more treats to placate them and avoid potential vandalism, or we can turn off the lights, hide in the closet and clean up the damage Wednesday morning. Sunday evening, the cul-de-sac collective sat around the circle and we handed out candy to the locals. 

I like Halloween. When I was a kid it was the third of the Big Three holidays as gauged by the intensity of our anticipation and greed. In order: Christmas, Birthday, Halloween, with St. Valentine’s Day a distant fourth (for the candy, not love). We knew from experience where the good houses were and avoided the family that handed out candy-covered apples on a stick. Dumped in our bags, they stuck to the candy bars and bubble gum, forming a sticky, inedible clot. One old lady threw handfuls of change in our bags. Another guy two blocks away apparently worked for a bread distributor. He handed out small sampled-sized loaves of Wonder Bread.

 

Now I enjoy on Halloween the carefully calibrated atmosphere of anarchy. I enjoy seeing the confusion on the faces of the youngest children, uncertain of the rules but urged on by parents to collect more loot, and the shifting fashions of pop culture as reflected in costumes: Barbie. Today’s parents spend more money on costumes than mine ever did. We were pretty much on our own and resorted to two old reliables: Army guy (Ike jacket, holstered .45) or Emmet Kelly-style hobo (burnt cork, bindle on a stick). I don’t remember ever being spooked by anything while out trick-or-treating except the older boys who tried to throw firecrackers into our bags. Edward Beatty recounts a different experience of the holiday in his poem “Halloween,” published in the Winter 2007 issue of Prairie Schooner:

 

“An innocent might think it is wind prying plywood

nailed across the windows of the condemned farmhouse

 

“or the ragweed and burdock struggling to break free

of the frost, their fingers digging into the siding to pull

 

“themselves up. From a bare oak an owl asks ‘Who?

Who? Who?’ as the rusted windmill’s gears cry ‘Why?’

 

“A jack-o’-lantern grinning through chocolate milk

that blackens the sky, spilled when a playful hand tip

 

“a tumbler, knows it is the children, costumes like

rotted corn stalks, bags empty, who have returned home,

 

“rattle the padlocked door to rouse cat, dog, mom,

dad concealed in the cellar, but not a fiend who wielding

 

“a white club leaped from the master bedroom one

Halloween and drove them out. They long to get back in,

 

“to sit at the kitchen table, sculpt a face with mashed

potatoes, duel with spoon and fork, tap a tune on a plate.

 

“They didn’t want to raid a neighbor’s garden, smash

pumpkins on walk and porch, torch scarecrow and shed.

 

“It’s not wind one hears, only little people frightened

by the long night, pleading to be done with trick or treat.”