Halloween
is a holiday whose significance for the masses escapes me.
What’s with all the yards of make-believe cobwebs, gravestones,
skeletons, ghosts and goblins? My
neighbor has a five-foot skeleton standing outside his door as if to enter. It periodically
tumbles and he has to prop it up again.
My puzzlement about masquerading as somebody other than myself and going
door to door begging for treats stems back to my childhood.
My
parents were immigrants from Ukraine after a particularly difficult time during
the Revolution and anarchy that followed.
At the time, the poor people, sometimes including children, actually
went door to door begging for food. The alternative was starving. In one hand they carried a stick to ward off
dogs and, in the other, a gunny sack slung over the shoulder. Into it they
tossed whatever a housewife could give. Therefore, Mother and Dad had no
understanding of the strange custom of trick or treating at Halloween in their
adopted land.
After
we children were old enough to realize we were being shut out of a windfall of
candy each fall, we pleaded to go out with our friends trick or treating,
Mother’s answer was a firm “no” and Dad’s even firmer. Go out begging?
Unthinkable. No child of the highly
respected Jake Funk would beg for candy from his customers and friends. He
would bring home candy from the store.
We accepted the ultimatum for several years, though we were bug-eyed with
jealousy when school friends came to the classroom the next morning burdened
with candy kisses, gum, and apples, while we each cradled a few suckers in one
palm.
One
year, after first talking it over with Dad in the little upstairs bedroom,
Mother agreed to let me go with my friend Mona for “a little while.” I found an old sheet, cut holes in it for
eyes, and joined Mona and the other girls under the corner light post, a paper
shopping bag under my arm. At last. I had made the break. I was one of the gang
hollering ‘Trick or treat!” at door after door. Up one street and down another
we went. We each collected a weighty bag of candy, gum, apples, and cookies. The
butcher gave us each a wiener. The druggist handed out samples of toothpaste.
My
“little while” was nearly used up when we knocked at a small white house, dimly
lit, on a side street. I was shivering
from the cold already and knew it was time to quit, but we wanted to finish off
the last few houses before we went home to show off our loot to younger
brothers and sisters.
I
banged on the door of a small house with new-found bravado. I was doing it like
the others, a real Canadian, shouting “Trick of treat!” We never soaped
anyone’s windows if the people didn’t give us treats, but that was what the
other children said, so I said it too. “Trick or treat!” we shouted as we
waited for someone to answer our knock.
A
graying, thinnish woman with deep lines in her forehead, dressed in a limp,
gingham house dress, opened the door. Brusquely she said, “No treats here tonight
…. a man is dying in here.” She swung the door shut in my face.
My
feet refused to move. Dying? How often had she said those words that evening? A
man was dying behind the wooden door of the house with the low porch and broken
step. Was it her husband? Was he lying on the bed or sitting? What did people do when they knew they were
dying? What did they talk about? What they might
hand out for Halloween treats this year?
Mona and I turned and went home, never saying a word.
I
never went trick or treating again. And I lost my enthusiasm for the custom
ever after. I didn’t need trick or
treating, cobwebs, tombstones, or a skeleton at my door to remind me of my
mortality. I carried my humanity with me daily.
[This story appeared in a slightly different
form in my book The Storekeeper’s Daughter: A Memoir.]