Sugar in bulk.
My only complaint was my annual handmade costume my dear mother would refer to as, Ha Couture, consisting of leotards and a shirt she stole from my father. Despite the fact she’d change my identity, I still looked the same whether I was a beatnik, hobo, or Audrey Heartburn, her idea of Halloween humor.
She also had cocktail napkins that said…Eat Drink and Be Scary.
Every couple of years she’d make me a clown, my least favorite getup since she’d rub big circles of rouge on my cheeks along with fake ears, a Lana Turner wig and my father’s golf shoes she’d stuff with Kleenex. I’d cry and beg her to please buy me a costume like all the other kids, but she’d laugh and say, “No sirree, my daughter will always be an original.”
No shit ma, with a mother like you what else could I be.
One year she did try going out of the box by turning me into Chef Boyardee. Rather than my big red shirt I wore a white one with tomato sauce all down the front. My chef’s hat was so big I couldn’t see where I was going. I looked more like a Klansman than a cook.
But the payoff was the candy. This was in the day when no one worried about poison or hidden razor blades. All bets were off when you came to the door. Nowadays kids have their goodies put through a scanner in case Anthrax was sprinkled on their Milk Duds.
Sadly, most kids in the city only go to private parties rather than door to door. That was half the fun, being out after dark with your father in tow making sure you didn’t lose his golf shoes.
When I look back, I’m glad life was more innocent when I was trick or treating. If Mrs. Blyer or Min across the street came to the door holding a permit with plastic gloves, I might have run away with my dad yelling, “Be careful of those shoes now.”
Shiver me timbers