How Halloween used to be

Why is it that journalists and writers in general seem to have a cranky bone?

I’m no exception, and with Halloween approaching, I’m complaining.

Not only complaining but reminiscing about when times were better.

I’m reminiscing about the Halloween of the old days, which was when I was a kid in Whitefish. Here’s what it looked like: My mom and dad pulled out a bunch of old clothes, rags, aluminum foil, string, tape, paint and cardboard, and got to work on us, having a lot of artistic fun with my sister and me, designing a costume that we were not allowed an opinion about. (In the old days, children were not allowed to choose their own costumes. In general, children were not allowed an opinion at all, at least in my household.)

After our parents had a few drinks and a real good time making us look weird, and yelling at us for crying (“Ah, stop your cryin’ or I’ll give you something to cry about,” “You look cute,” “And besides, you’re going to get candy”), we all went out and got into the car and headed to town.

Now, they didn’t drop us off in the wealthiest neighborhoods and let us scamper around in the darkened streets, free, happy and filling our pillowcases with a bootie of candy that would be the envy of the most evil pirates. No, that would have been: A) too much fun or B) unsafe (when I was a kid, someone put a razor blade in someone’s Halloween candy somewhere and for at least the next decade, the whole U.S. was afraid of Halloween candy). Also, we would have been laughed at because our costumes were weird.

No, we had a carefully executed plan about where we were to trick or treat, drawn out by my dad, who was always very organized and in charge. Also, he was a Realtor and knew a lot of nice people that he wanted to socialize with, so there was an ulterior motive.

So my sister and I sat in the back seat with our pillowcases, looking one another over and trying to decide what we were, saying, “I think you’re Raggedy Ann,” “No, maybe the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz,” “But what’s that aluminum foil coming out of your ponytails?” And Dad pulled out his map and we were on our way.

We went from house to house, visiting all the friends and relatives of our parents. When Mr. and Mrs. Abell came to the door, my sister would yell, “TRICK OR TREEEEEEAAAAT” and do a little hyper dance that got wilder as the night went on and she got more of a sugar buzz (but in those days, we didn’t think sugar had anything to do with hyperactivity in children, so my parents just thought she was a mega-extravert.)

I, the shy one, with aluminum foil scratching my forehead, would hide behind my sister, staring at the ground with my pillowcase held out, in hopes that I would still get a treat even though I didn’t actually ask for one. Of course, I got plenty of candy, but also homemade treats, which were really a prize.

We weren’t afraid to eat them because we knew whose kitchens they came from. Homemade caramel apples, cookies and candies. One little old lady my parents knew was too poor to buy candy and too tired to cook, so she gave us apples from a tree in her backyard. We didn’t like it much, but we knew how to say thank you, as we tucked those little green apples away in our stash.

We got plenty of candy. My parents had fun. We were safe. My parents didn’t have too many friends and relatives, so we had a good time, had a few good pieces of candy, not enough to completely rot our teeth out of our heads and not enough to send us to the moon with hyperactivity.

So, I conclude my reminiscing and begin my complaining. What’s with Halloween in this generation? What the heck is going on?

Parents send their children out on the hoof, into the strategically-planned areas of town where they’re bound to stock up on the finest selections of candy (nicer neighborhoods means no rotten apples from little old ladies on a pension), and kids get so much candy their daily allotment of sugar for the next year spikes up to 50 percent of their diets.

Homemade costumes? A rarity. Wal-Mart, Costco, Target, all produce cute little suits so that kids get to be whoever they want — their favorite Disney character or some cute little bug or animal. Where’s the humility in that?

Whitefish has become the Mardi Gras of the Northwest when it comes to Halloween, and grown-ups spend a ton of money and time dressing themselves up and hitting the bars.

What’s wrong with this picture? Well, you can analyze the rights and wrongs, but what reminiscing breeds is complaining simply because, if you’ve been around long enough, you start to see what isn’t working in social trends.

When I was a kid, Halloween was a family affair, a social affair, much simpler, organic and fun than today’s Halloween celebration. There was less greed, less craziness. Because people in general lived simpler lives, the pace was slower. There was a little more time to make a costume as a family, out of whatever could be found around the house, and have a few laughs over what costumes could be made.

There was a humbleness and a certain surrender that stemmed from this: Whatever happened was OK because we were accustomed to things not being exactly as we wanted them to be all of the time. And this was a good thing. It made us more grateful when they actually did, and more capable of dealing graciously when they did not.

My venting is done. I’ll cave in and buy a bowl of high-fructose corn syrup-laden candies at Safeway and fill a bowl for the cuties that may happen by. If I’m in the mood, maybe I’ll wear a witch’s hat and pass out candy myself, admiring the adorable faces of my friends’ and neighbors’ children as they trick or treat my neighborhood.

Or, if I’ve had an especially long day, I’ll turn off the lights and just leave the bowl out by the front door with a “Take one each, please” sign and hide in the back bedroom, reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books with a tear in my eye.