THE DISTINGUISHING PARENT'S GUIDE TO NOT SCREWING UP THE COSTUME AND THE CANDY
What could be better than a holiday devoted to candy and costumes?
By late August, retailers are salivating in anticipation of booming sales of sweets, Halloween accessories, and premade costumes; kids are looking forward to a sugar orgy; and dentists and diet clubs are clearing their calendars for increased post-holiday business.
It is a holiday that requires careful planning, if one is to avoid the dreaded ‘tricks’ that will most assuredly result if the goodies are not good enough, or run out before the crowds disperse. One must have access to the proper graphs, charts, and accurate population statistics that reflect yearly fluctuations. And then there’s the question of how to carry all the booty. The only logical choice is a pillowcase or giant-sized heavy-duty canvas tote: the older the kid, the bigger the bag. By the time they get to their early teens, you might as well just drive alongside with the trunk open.
Weather is another variable, one that can lead to a logistical nightmare for parents. After working really hard to come up with a truly great costume for your progeny- one that meets the highest standard for creativity and/or authenticity (although I’m not sure “authentic” is the correct description for someone dressed like a Minion)- do you then cover it with a winter coat when it’s 40 degrees out? Or, conversely, let them go (as they will beg and plead for you to do) without a coat?
As we all know, there are rules and procedures to follow. If one does not live in a large, interconnected neighborhood, one must travel to the nearest congested area in order to maximize the “take.” It would be inefficient and irresponsible to accept limited results after putting in unlimited work on an acceptable costume. The correct effort-to-proceeds ratio must be maintained. Protocol must be followed. Candy must be eaten.
Take my experience, for example: I grew up, in the days when dinosaurs ruled the earth, in a large suburban area. When, years later, I moved to a rural street, I prepared for the big day by purchasing large quantities of high-fructose products and placing myself at the ready for the onset of the pre-school set in early afternoon. I remained there when school let out, although I must admit the candy bowl was slightly less full. When darkness fell, and no trick-or-treaters came, I finished the candy, shut the lights, and rolled my increased bulk into the bedroom where I lay in a sugar-induced stupor. This was when the doorbell rang. Stumbling into the darkened living room, I opened the door to find a lone child, the son of my only near neighbor, standing on the deck- with the lights of his mother’s car illuminating the driveway. Having eaten all the candy (and some of the wrappers), I attempted to cover my faux pas by giving him a five-dollar bill. He looked surprised, but not entirely unhappy when he left.
In the suburbs, we trick-or-treated until deep into our teens or beyond, if we could get away with it. At that point, the rebellious in our ranks showed their objection to being cut off by removing the offender’s mailbox from its functional position, depositing as-yet unformed chickens on their cars, or decorating their yard with sanitary paper.
Halloween is a time for serious creativity, and while I am considered a very creative person, that creativity never extended to costumes. Most years I went as a farmer, wearing coveralls and one of my father’s flannel shirts. If I was feeling especially imaginative, I stuffed some hay into the sleeves, put on a straw hat, and went as a scarecrow. The only part of the ordeal I liked was the candy.
As a young married person, I found myself attending an annual costume party held by some friends who were very serious about Halloween. These people planned their costumes for months, maybe years in advance, and they were good. Very good. For the first time in my life I had to exert some effort. One year we went as nerds, wearing short sleeve button-downs (complete with plastic pocket protectors), high-waters, and horn-rimmed glasses held together with electrical tape. The next year I got really serious: we went as flashers. Under old rumpled trench coats we wore skin-colored suits that I adorned with some rather large and extraordinary body parts; we were a hit. Knowing I would never again achieve that level of enthusiasm, I gave up and went back to overalls and a flannel shirt.
A few years later when my son arrived on the scene, it became obvious that he’d inherited someone else’s Halloween genes. We hadn’t even pulled into the driveway after a night of trick-or-treating when he’d already begun dreaming of what he’d wear next year. He dragged me kicking and screaming out of my Halloween doldrums, and forced me (by sheer cuteness) to make him whatever costume he wanted, or- in later years- to take him to the costume store. I vividly recall how proud I was of the Fred Flintstone costume I made him as a toddler (and how pissed off I was that he had to wear a coat over it in the cold). As a teen he took over costume duties, and I have a wonderful picture of him dressed as a redneck, carrying a beer can (he said it was empty) in a fish-head coozie, and sporting a black mullet. I also have a picture of him dressed as a cane wielding, gold-tooth wearing pimp, though I am slightly less proud of that one.
Nowadays, my son and the children of my rural street are long grown, and I’ve fallen back into blissful Halloween sloth. I’m free to sit in my recliner and watch television in peace, knowing that the whole bowl of candy is for me.
