…is on Halloween!

We spent our elementary-school years in a “Leave It To Beaver” neighborhood.  We walked to school.  And walked home for lunch–peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Then we walked back to school.  Yes, even in three feet of snow.

It was in the era when mothers said, “It’s not raining.  Go play outside,” meaning none of the kids in our neighborhood sat in their houses and watched tv.  We would return at lunchtime (noon) and dinner (five thirty).  When we weren’t playing in the fields across the street (now the Rhode Island Mall) my brother was writing and directing plays for us to act in, we were trying to scrounge enough money from impromptu yard sales to buy Hostess cupcakes, playing Barbie (me), playing “soldier” (him), riding bikes, rollerskating and dancing in the Cristofaro’s garage.

So on my brother’s birthday the neighborhood kids would gather in our basement for a party with hot dogs, potato sticks, orange soda and cake.  We’d get all wound up and then hit the streets.

Trick or treat heaven, I tell ya.  One house after another, street after street.  We’d have to come home once or twice to empty our bags (and hope Daddy wouldn’t steal all of his favorite candy bars while we were gone). 

My father, who loved candy and kids and parties and holidays, would wait until we left the house before putting on a costume and trick or treating the neighbors.  Once he dressed as a witch, not knowing that the local radio station was running a contest.  The person who found the “WPRO Witch” was the winner, so Dad was accosted everywhere he went.

The following year he decided it was safer to stay home, so my mother wrapped him in newspapers and sat him in a chair at the front door.  His face was covered with a stocking and a treat bag hung from his wrist.  Kids would come up to the door and assume he was a decoration, until he slowly lifted his arm and terrified children would drop treats into *his* bag.

My brother and I had no idea any of this was going on back at the house.   Yet our father had his own mixing bowl filled with candy and was in on the post-Halloween trading session at the kitchen table.  He would trade anything for a Snickers.

So Happy Birthday, Skip!  If you didn’t live so far away I’d make you hot dogs, with your own can of potato sticks on the side.  And Ho-Ho’s for dessert.

Happy Halloween, too.

Love,
your sister