Remembering a Time When Candy Was Good as Gold

When I was a kid, Halloween was a big deal.

It was something we looked forward to for weeks. We plotted, planned and schemed, drew maps of our proposed routes through the neighborhood, lined up the friends we would travel with and held candy trading sessions with friends and siblings at the end of the night.

I grew up in a rowhouse community in Essex, and as any child at Trick-or-Treat time knows, high-density neighborhoods are good!

We knew which neighbors would let us cross yards and just go from door to door, and we knew which ones would have our heads if we didn't walk down the sidewalk and steps and up the steps to the next house.

We also knew which neighbors gave "good" candy, though the definition of good varied from kid to kid (which is what made the trading sessions fun).
Our neighborhood also had its share of adults who gave out apples, raisins, pencils, pennies and even the occasional nickel or dime.

It was a time when people could still give out homemade things like popcorn balls, fudge and cookies, and they would actually get eaten, instead of being thrown away because of the risk of being tainted.

I never cared much for chocolate, and I would trade away the candy bars for things like SweeTarts and Smarties. One candy bar — especially a big one — was usually good for two or three rolls of Smarties and even more pieces of gum.

As I recall, our costumes were never much. In a pinch, the now politically incorrect hobo outfit could be called into action. A pair of tattered jeans and an old flannel shirt, combined with the time-honored burned cork smudges on our cheeks quickly put us in the begging business.

When we had "real" costumes, they were usually of the drug store variety — the ones with the cheap polyester outfits that tore as soon as any real energy was exerted, and plastic masks that were held precariously to our faces with thin elastic bands.

The masks always got sweaty and steamy, and it wasn't long before they were perched atop our heads instead of covering our faces.

One year, I remember being thrilled that I was able to convince my mother to spend all of 79 cents on a plastic pumpkin candy bin. You know — the ones with the spindly little black plastic "handles" that gave way once the pumpkin held more than five pieces of candy?

I think every child of the 1960s cried over spilled candy when those handles broke — usually while running to cross the street.

Fancy containers lost their appeal and I resorted in later years to borrowing a pillow case for the evening.

The durability of the pillow case came in handy the year a long-awaited apartment complex opened on the outskirts of our development.

While adults probably lamented the loss of farmland and open space, we kids could think of only one thing: 12 doors to knock on in one building on Halloween night!

And there were lots and lots of those buildings!

So much candy, such little effort!

Editor's Note: This column was first published Oct. 31, 2011, on Columbia Patch and I'm bringing it back for a reprise.