It’s raining, damp and cold, our beautiful bright blue October skies have grayed, filled with flocks of geese staying ahead of the front to find their winter quarters.
The brilliant leaves have fallen and now lie brown and decaying on the ground as if in anticipation of the cold to come.
But I’m fine, I sit here in my old well-worn recliner by the warm fire, and with no awareness, I find myself in a familiar place many years ago.
I am a girl of twelve and I live with my mom and dad and seven siblings in the house our great grandpa built. We are a tight German Catholic family and we kids are herded together like a gaggle of geese, probably due to our number. But this is a special night, an exception…it’s Halloween!
My sister and I and my two brothers are all “a-twitter” about the prospect of trick or treats! We all have created costumes for our venture—I am a gypsy girl in my long copper-colored skirt with the lace edge, topped with my peasant blouse and several bangles and beads.
We’ve each carved our pumpkins and placed a candle in the bottom set with melted wax to hold it. Then we check the pumpkin top that it fits tight so we don’t burn our fingers.
Off we go. First we knock on the doors of familiar neighbors: Leach, Sardinos, Slades, Schultz, and even Mrs. Weinburg! Our goody bags are filling with apples and candies as we go.
Then comes the challenge. We cross the thru street and continue to the next block where we only knock on doors where a porch light is on. We don’t know these people.
And then we approach the old yellow house which sits on the opposite side of the street. There he is—almost like an apparition and sitting on his porch steps, the nasty old man.
He is unkempt, his shirt is worn and shabby, and his slouch hat is pulled down over one side of his face. Still, we can see his leering expression. While chomping on a big cigar he emitted a growling sound and hollered, “You kids get outta here!”
We try to ignore him as his glare follows us down the street. We knock on a couple more lighted doors until we come to the next street—the limit imposed by our parents.
We turn around and head towards home and quietly walk toward the part of the block where we are leery of seeing the mean old man again.
But with a sigh of relief, we see that he’s not there. At the same moment, my brother Peter reaches into his goody bag and withdraws a whole raw egg that he had stashed earlier.
With uncanny accuracy, he pitches the egg which lands exactly when the old man sat. Good job, Pete! Now he hands me an egg. I pull back and let it fly and it lands again on the stoop like a cracked egg in a skillet!
Then, to our horror, the door starts to slowly open and the old man, cigar in face toddles out, steps in my egg, and without hesitating sits on the step where my brother’s egg has landed.
I can say with no exaggerating that we all take off running faster than we thought possible until we reach our porch and burst through the door, breathless and wide-eyed!
Our mother asks if we had a good time. “Of course,” we all clamor.
So many years ago, so many Halloweens, so many memories.
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In dedication of my brother, Peter