October 31, 1974, Huron County 

“Mrs. Beecroft gave me a carrot!” I say with disgust as I toss my ears onto the table beside the bag of goodies. I am a couple of years from dropping the F bomb but I’m sure thinking the 8 year old equivalent. If Halloween isn’t already a big drag, at least I should get decent treats. A carrot! Ok, I get it - I’m a rabbit. But really. How about those chips you gave my friends? It’s only time we have snacks in our house. (Ours is a family where the clock, not our stomachs, dictate when we eat; the words “I feel like eating,” are in my future, not my present.) 

“Ok, but did you have fun?” mom inquires. She’s stayed home to shell out to the handful of kids whose parents drive them up our long laneway while I’ve gone out with Stephen and Cathy, my playmates who live across the road. Their mother, Gloria, has driven us around the country block, stopping at about 10 farms and spending time at each. The front step of each house has one simple carved pumpkin lit with the soft glow of a candle, the universal signal: yes, this house is open to the costumed and their plainclothed chauffeur/moms. It’s a rare chance for the women of East Wawanosh to visit with each other after the harvest and before the snow flies. They enjoy it as much as the children.

Or in my case, more.

I know why I don’t like Halloween. I’ve heard my four older siblings rave about great Halloweens past when mom and dad made elaborate costumes from wood and papier-mâché. I’ve seen pictures of the Humpty Dumpty costume, complete with a wall and heard - endlessly - about “the man” and how much fun it was to wear him. “The man” is the only survivor from that time before mom and dad aged out of having fun. I wore him last year. The wooden frame sat on my shoulders creating an illusion of being three feet taller and the coat nearly suffocated me hanging loosely from his shoulders as I peered out between the coat’s buttons. All fine when you’re standing up, but getting in and out of the car where I had to be prone in the backseat was an ordeal for me and everyone else. Never again. This year’s rabbit costume is at least not awkward although disappointing in its rewards. 

“What did the Mennonites give you this year?” mom continues, trying to distract me from the carrot issue. Going to the Mennonites is always the highlight. The Gingrich girls regularly babysit my friends when Gloria is working at the hospital and because I am often at their house watching The Price Is Right after school (we don’t have a TV), I know Edna and Alma too. They are the eldest girls of the twelve Gingrich kids. But they still have time to make us popcorn balls and candied apples from scratch each year. I bet we’re the only ones who go to their house - everyone else is likely afraid, not knowing if Mennonites approve of Halloween. I’m pretty sure they don’t dress up but they like fun just we like do, despite their dark clothes, bonnets, and simple ways. Later I will learn their ideas about the role of women are as outdated as their resistance to electricity, phones, and other mod-cons. But now I love to go into their house and visit in the shadowy lamplight while drinking in the smells of fresh bread and woodsmoke.

“Look, they made us caramel corn!” I produce a sizeable bag of it from the larger loot bag. Mom reaches her hand out: “I better test it.” She grins slyly. Mom has a sweet tooth. More than I do in fact. She’ll be watching me carefully as I do my candy inventory, assessing what I may not want, hoping there will be some coconut things or Mars bars, things I don’t really like.  

“OK, but not too much,” I caution as I stick a few pieces in my mouth and pass her the bag. I dump everything else out and begin sorting, prioritizing the salty things, then chocolate bars (except Mars) and then finally getting to candy kisses and other things that- well - no-one likes. Dad will happily eat a couple of those when he gets in from milking cows. While each house gave us an assortment of goodies, such a limited geographic tour produces a modest overall amount of junk. It won’t take me long to plough through the spoils of the evening with a little help from mom and dad.

—

October 31, 2021, Toronto 

Those were simpler times. The small number of Halloweens I’ve enjoyed in my adult life are far outweighed by those when I’ve hidden in my basement with the lights off sending another universal signal - don’t waste your time here, kids, I’m eating my own chips. 

The first happy Halloween was my last in Wingham before university. I went to a dance wearing something vaguely resembling a nun’s habit. Truth is, it was my sister’s formal dress and I was just excited to wear it. I don’t remember the party but I loved swishing in that dotted Swiss floor length gown. The second was just a few years ago: Jack and I were invited to our neighbours’ house to enjoy creepy food - mini pizzas looking like spiders, jalapeños dressed up as mice, and so on - while they fed the masses of kids who descended on their house. The night was fun because of the food, wine, and time with good friends. And the creepiness - I’m not averse to that. 

As lukewarm to Halloween as I was as a kid, it was preferable to the commercial, urban October 31sts I see around me. This year, despite COVID-related supply chain interruptions, mass-produced “inflatables” dot the streets and ghostly light shows project onto houses. Don’t get me wrong - some of these are hella cute, including the solar powered pumpkin heads bordering my neighbour’s sidewalk. But very few houses bother to create their own decorations, just as they don’t have the time or the skill to bust out the lumber and papier-mâché to develop original costumes for their kids. Kids don’t seem to care, as they will dress up as Marvel characters or Elsa from Frozen. They skip through leaves on October 31 accompanied by millennial parents also dressed up, along to ensure their kids make it back home safely and don’t fall prey to the fabled razor blades in apples (who would do that? Did that actually ever happen?). I will have my door shut and my front lights off, feeling a little guilty for my Scroogerie. 

So what am I looking forward to? November 1’s “pumpkin parade” in the park beside my house. The triangular-eyes and oval maws of 1974 have been replaced: portraits of cultural icons come to life in bas-relief; ghoulish creatures shake you to your bones; the lumpy-bumpy imperfections in the gourd’s shape are used to full advantage, creating scary or clever pieces of art. Whatever deficiencies those young parents have in costumes and house decorating, they more than make up for in the pumpkin show. I may have darkened my windows and doors on October 31, but I’m going to be out there marvelling at the scores of pumpkins that appear to mark the day of the dead.