Page A3 The Joan De Arc Crusader / Saturday, October 31, 2009

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The ghosts of Halloween past

By J. Bueker

     I recently caught an airing of “It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” for the first time in many a year. While not quite the immortal masterpiece of “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” “Pumpkin” is a charming and imaginative celebration of one of the supreme joys of childhood -- the annual opportunity to don a silly costume and go door to door mooching sweets from complete strangers. I must confess, after all these years, it is still unclear to me why Charlie Brown’s neighbors, apparently without exception, insist on dropping a rock into his treat bag rather than candy. Man, that poor little schmuck endured some serious persecution.

     In October 1966, when “Pumpkin” first aired, Halloween was not yet the billion dollar industry that now dominates the autumnal season. It was all quite a bit more innocent and low key back in those days. Sure, kids dressed up and went from house to house, in roughly the same manner as today, but much has changed. You didn’t see mothers in 1966 for instance driving their brood across town to trick-or-treat in pricier neighborhoods where the take might be a more lucrative one. We were perfectly content to prowl the streets of our own neighborhood in search of those tasty teeth-rotting treasures.

     The traditional first stop for the Bueker kids each Halloween was always the Mitchell home, just two doors down from 3219. Bill and Helen displayed during this era a marked affinity for Butterfinger candy bars, as this was the exclusive treat they offered each year on the big night. And back in those days of yore, it wasn’t the sissy little “snack size” Butterfinger that was distributed on Halloween, nay, but the full-sized bad boy in all its glory. To this day, I still think of the Mitchells whenever I bite into a Butterfinger bar. It’s funny the things that stick in your mind -- I can’t even remember what our family gave out on Halloween back in the 1960s. 

     Ah, the Bueker household. I seem to have zero recollection of the senior Bueker child, Susan, ever venturing out for trick-or-treat on Joan De Arc. I imagine she deemed the whole business to be frightfully inconsistent with her carefully cultivated image of super-coolness and declined to participate in such infantile frivolity. Sue was, however, possessed of a distinct fondness for the pumpkin seeds we would roast in the oven each year after carving the family jack-o-lantern, and she typically insisted on personally directing this activity.

     Sister Barbie on the other hand went out trick-or-treating several times from 3219 before outgrowing the ritual, and her participation was memorable for the absolutely meticulous organization and disposition of her Halloween goodies. While the rest of us would mindlessly comingle the Baby Ruths and Pixie Stix in our Halloween bags and rapidly consume the treats in a more or less random sequence, Barbie would deftly sort and categorize each confection according to a strict and consistent protocol of her own devising. All bubble gum in one pile, all candy bars in another, miscellaneous wrapped candies in yet another, and on and on. She was thus able to exercise maximal discretion in deciding which treats to consume and when, making her Halloween stash persist for what seemed like weeks afterward. It was awe-inspiring.

     Needless to say, our perpetually nervous mother insisted on personally escorting her two youngest offspring on their Halloween adventures through those early years. This was the period during which widespread rumors of razor-blade-laden candy apples first emerged in the American consciousness, and parents did generally become more safety-conscious on Halloween. One year, probably 1966 or thereabouts, Barbara even concocted a costume for herself and joined in the fun. She contrived a remarkably authentic hobo get-up that would fit in disturbingly well with my brother and myself as we wandered the darkened streets of Surrey Heights on our quest for sugary alms. Charles and I both found this idea vaguely disquieting, but what’re you gonna do?

     At length that night we stood before our Uncle John’s dwelling on Voltaire Avenue, smiling nervously as our lovely Aunt Sandy greeted us at the door. She was as always very pleased to see her nephews, but her discomfort was noticeable as she struggled to identify the unusually tall derelict accompanying them that evening. When Mother finally disclosed her identity, Sandy dutifully dropped a snack in Barb’s treat bag and graciously endeavored to conceal her bemusement. Helen Mitchell had been slightly less diplomatic when we arrived at 3231, immediately wondering aloud, “Hey, aren’t you a little old for this sort of thing?” This was the last time Mom ever went out trick-or-treating, although to my knowledge she has not completely ruled out someday having another go at it. I’m guessing that 34-years-old remains the standing Joan De Arc record for most elderly all-time trick-or-treater.

     Voltaire Ave. was also a notable ‘60s Halloween destination on account of the fellow who mounted a dazzling strobe light over his front porch each All Hallowed’s Eve. This was relatively advanced technology for the time, and the house instantly became one of the pre-eminent stops on Halloween night in Surrey Heights. The lighting effect in fact was so intense and novel that some kids were actually afraid to approach the place and skipped it entirely. Many more however would make multiple trips to the “crazy light house,” including the Bueker kids. It was, in a word, surpassingly bitching.

     Of course, trick-or-treat was never destined to be a uniformly pleasant experience. There was always the occasional smart ass in the neighborhood who demanded a “trick” of his costumed visitors in lieu of offering the customary treat. Such folks usually awoke the next morning to soaped windows and toilet-papered lawns, but at least they displayed some understanding of the nuances of Halloween tradition. Worse were the killjoys who would only reward children who were out trick-or-treating specifically on behalf of UNICEF. Sheesh. What a buzz kill that was.

     The first Halloween that Mother at last allowed me to trick-or-treat independent of her watchful eye was 1968, and I made the rounds that year with neighbor and fellow 5th grader Mark Wells. Now Mark was an excitable lad in these kinds of situations, and his inclination was to race across people’s front lawns on his way to each house rather than adopt the more orderly routine of walking back out to the sidewalk and then proceeding forward. Unfortunately, his exuberant habit caught up with him in spectacular fashion this Halloween night.

     As we were working our way east on Joan De Arc a couple of houses away from the Rose’s residence, Mark started sprinting full speed across a yard as I watched from the sidewalk. In the darkness, and in his haste, he failed to perceive that this particular front yard was cordoned off by a fence comprised of cables suspended from metal posts. The resulting wipe-out was simultaneously one the funniest and most frightening incidents I would witness as a child. The cable caught him precisely at waist level, jackknifing his body while his forward momentum carried him around the fence and deposited him on the other side in a near-perfect gymnastic flip. It was a thing of beauty, really. Mark lay silent on his back for several long seconds before recovering enough breath to let out an extended wail of distress. I deduced that our trick-or-treating was officially over for that year, but the Wells boy proved his mettle and soldiered on after taking a few minutes on the ground to recover. We would both carefully utilize the sidewalk for the remainder of that Halloween night.

     My final year as a trick-or-treater was 1970, when I was 12 years of age and a 7th grader at Sahuaro. I went out that Halloween with neighbor Tom Neff, an old pal I had known in the 1st and 2nd grades before his parents shipped him off to a private school for several years. When he reappeared at Sahuaro for junior high school, we again became fast friends.

     For some reason during this period, Tom and I together invented an imaginary character we called “Ivan Noski.” Ivan was a somewhat slow-witted Polish gentleman with a ridiculously thick Slavic accent, doubtlessly inspired by the then exceedingly popular phenomenon of “Polack jokes.” Tom and I composed detailed stories at school about Ivan, carefully outlining his clueless personality and improbable life story. We even got on the phone occasionally, and in character as Ivan, attempted to engage random strangers in completely nonsensical conversations about our longing for the homeland. In any event, we thought the whole thing was staggeringly funny, and ergo Tom and I both dressed up as Ivan Noski for our ultimate trick-or-treat extravaganza.

     About midway through our travels that evening, we encountered our Sahuaro classmate Steve Burgess, who was cruising the neighborhood on his Schwinn seeking mischief. Steve seized the opportunity to mercilessly taunt Tom and me for our ridiculous childishness in still trick-or-treating at the ripe old age of 12. We were momentarily stunned by this unprovoked onslaught of scorn, particularly since Steve himself ironically had a well-established reputation for less than mature behavior. He left us with a sneering “C’mon, grow up guys,” as he pedaled off into the night. Tom and I rattled off a string of standard-issue obscenities in our tormentor’s general direction and then went on about our business.

     By night’s end, I had accumulated my biggest-ever Halloween haul, unsurprising since as a 12-year-old I was allowed to stay out a bit longer than in previous years. But something had changed. Steve Burgess’s stinging ridicule had struck a nerve, and when we returned to Tom’s house that night, we found that vandals had destroyed the jack-o-lantern his father had carefully carved just hours earlier, an act of Halloween sacrilege I had never before encountered. The symbolism of it all simply could not be ignored -- the time had come for trick-or-treat retirement. I would never go out again.

     One thing I’ve noticed about Halloween in the 21st century is that much older kids seem to be making the trick-or-treat rounds these days, some well into high school age and even beyond. The social stigma of being too old for trick-or-treat seems now to have dissipated entirely!

     I’m unsure of the explanation for this disturbing trend. The ever-increasing popularity of the holiday among older kids and adults is surely a factor, but I’m starting to think that Steve Burgess probably had it about right back in 1970. C’mon, grow up guys.

     Perhaps those rocks aren’t such a bad idea after all.

 ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________JDA

 

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