Over a couple of pumpkin spiced lattes, soon be replaced with egg nog lattes, some of us were discussing Halloween and reminiscing about trick or treating. Over the years, from our childhood and now with our children or grandchildren, the evening has changed.
It seems that back in our day, we all knew someone on our block who took on a more ominous aura around Halloween. There was a person who didn’t participate, leave their porch light on or give out treats.
They were often referred to as ‘the mean old man’ or ‘the mean old lady.’ Rumours would abound among the neighbourhood children of strange sounds or occurrences coming from their house or yard, and we would hurry past giving that evil place a wide berth. Except if you had smaller kids with you.
Then it was always fun to tell them they had to run up and knock on that darkened door or throw an egg at the spooky porch, telling them that we had done it when we were their age.
We had a man who lived alone on our street. He always wore overalls, drove a rusted old pick-up truck and never had anything to do with the neighbours. He had apple trees in his front yard that hung with fruit in the fall. It was always a dare to steal his apples.
The blackberry bushes in his back field seemed to have bigger and juicer berries than anyone else and we would sneak under the barbed wire like advancing Special Forces, just to get a pocketful without being seen. And his house was always dark on Halloween.
To run into that evil place and grab an apple off the ground and jump back across the ditch on a dark Halloween night, shouting, ‘Mean old man, mean old man, run away as fast as you can,’ was the sign of ultimate courage.
In later years, taking my kids around in fully-lighted neighbourhoods on smooth sidewalks didn’t seem to have the same sense of adventure. One year, my neighbour and I took our two six-year-old boys on our planned route. At the point of no return where we were the furthest from our homes, his boy says, “Dad, when we get to the next house can you ask them if I can use their bathroom, I have to poop.”
His dad replied, “You know, I think that gives a whole new meaning to trick or treat. Nobody wants a strange kid pooping in their toilet.”
My son suggested, “Just squeeze your butt cheeks together when you walk, until the feeling goes away.” That seemed to work and it became a Halloween memory for the boys.
Today, kids can go to ‘organized’ trick or treating in the mall or to planned parties where children exchange treats. How boring is that? Is there going to be mean old people there? Is there going to be some jerk friend who will jump out from behind a tree and scare the daylights out of you? Will there be a long gravel driveway up to a creaky dark porch? Not many Halloween memories are made at the mall.
I think there should be one field set aside every year where city kids can sneak in and tip over an outhouse in the dark, complete with an old farmer in overalls who yells, “You kids get off my property.”
That’s making memories. At least that’s what McGregor says.
