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by Tom Anselm

Some people really get into Halloween. Now, to be clear at the outset, I am not judging here. But I have to confess, it may be my least favorite holiday when you consider Thanksgiving and Christmas, Fourth of July and St. Patrick’s Day, Easter and, well, my birthday. Just kidding on that last one, although at my age, I should be doing the happy dance for every one.

All Hallows Eve has grown into a multibillion dollar retail extravaganza in the last few decades.   The desire for ghouls and goblins and lights and creepy dudes on the lawn is over the top in some respects. There have always been a few folks who love this opportunity to spook up their property.

One of our son’s best friends has been bequeathed his father’s swag, and is carrying on the tradition in his own home, with the help of his son, who will someday no doubt inherit the vintage creepy-crawlies and bodyless hands and heads that float in the air. Joe’s garage is a masterpiece, as was his father’s in an earlier day, and it truly is a work of art. He can’t wait for the end of October, and has brought a lot of fun to his neighborhood. So kudos for them all.

And daughter Katie and her husband Brett, BC (Before Children), hosted Halloweener bashes that were epic in scope, with a costume competition of outlandish proportion. Some most memorable were a full-scale F-14 coming down Halls Ferry ‘piloted’ by Maverick and Goose, The Lone Ranger and Tonto thundering across the neighbor’s lawn on a white horse and pinto… yeah, you get the idea.But, aside from the year I rigged a plastic skeleton to raise its arm at kids when they came to the porch, I just have never measured up to that.

Growing up, we had a carved pumpkin on the porch and that was it. As did most of the other houses in our neighborhood. The question in early October amongst friends was ‘what’re you gonna be for Halloween?’ And the usual answer was ‘I don’t know, probably a bum,” which was most likely what we ended up. Dad’s flannel shirt, a beat-up old hat, baggy pants, a beard made from mom rubbing some burnt cork across our cheeks.

Good to go. Grab that old pillow case and out the door for fun, frolic and pounds of junk. Nobody gave out apples or fruit, nothing healthy was allowed. Or at least not kept in the sack taking up space for real sugar. We roamed the ‘hood, in packs or two-by-two, with a bad joke or two available as needed. Here are some I have heard in recent years that would qualify in those days as winners:

Why was the skeleton depressed? Because he had nobody. (Get it? No body. Ha!)

What does a pepper do? Gets ‘jalapeno’ business. How do you make a handkerchief dance? Put a little boogie in it. (One of my faves!) Why don’t mummies take vacations? They’re afraid to unwind.   And so on…

It seems that our little town has a reputation for being one of the few that require, nay, demand that a joke be told to gain the coveted treat. When a few of our grandkids lived in Chicago, that quid pro quo was unheard of. I still like it, though, if for no other reason than to get some new material.

So as we head into the Night of the Dead, the All Hallows Eve, the sunset when little stomachs gorge on great gobs of goo, some of which splashes the bedroom rug later that night as, well, great gobs of goo, let us care for the safety of little trick-or-treaters, give the teenagers who should be home studying a hard time, and have an adult beverage with the neighbors by the firepit. Oh, and no Milk Duds for me. Two years in a row, pulled off the crown on my upper left molar. Ugh.

Okay, time for one last lame-o joke: What is Forrest Gump’s Wi-Fi password?

1Forrest1.

(Editors note: Days prior to publication, the author dislodged same left molar crown… on a frozen Snickers. Beware!)

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