Boo! Y'all

Halloween is my favorite holiday by far. I think that's so because it's always been so magical and fun. I can remember the thrill as a kid - running around the neighborhood, trying in vain to breathe behind wet, foggy hard plastic masks with their tight rubber band straps cutting into my scalp and gathering up candy just by yelling, "Trick or Treat!!" at the top of my lungs at total strangers. Total strangers giving out candy just because I yelled at them. Kid heaven.

At the end of the night, it never failed that I had a cut on my tongue (from the teeny tiny plastic mouth slots in those masks...I used to jam my tongue through trying to find oxygen) AND that my brother and I were still in our costumes and surveying our hoard of candy on the living room floor like people about to go out into the wilderness with only the candy in our plastic pumpkins for survival. The orange and black papered peanut butter taffy and the circus peanuts were always last on my imagined food chain. Fresh fruit and raisins - ditto.

Growing up in the South, it was sometimes chilly and brisk like you see in movies about Halloween but a lot of the time, it was hot too. When it was indeed hot, the trick or treating was pretty brutal in those nylon costumes. I'll never forget the sound that sweating nylon legs made as they rubbed together during a good run to beat the rest of the kids to the "rich peoples' houses" for the best candy - miniature candy bars! Have mercy! I also remember the nationwide scare/myth of razors in apples and candy which led Moms everywhere to treat each goody as a possible kid killer....thus we trick-or-treaters hid a couple of handfuls in the pockets of our Rough Houser jeans for good measure. As a kid, you're about nothing if not living on the edge. And rebellious sugar highs.

My favorite Halloween memory was the year that my Mom let us go down the street to the rental home of the "Confederates", a local motorcycle gang that was notorious far and wide for being rough and tumble and hardcore, and who displayed Confederate flags on their bikes and clothes. This was completely out of character for my protective Mom and as kids, our blood pumped with new found freedom and the danger that loomed ahead on the peeling porch of that run-down mill hill house.

My Mom stood at the bottom of the steps with watchful eye as my brother and I made our way up to the front door. The door was answered by one of the Confederates who instantly yelled to the other bikers inside that they had to see. My brother was led into the living room where the Confederates were watching TV. They then started to hoot and holler over my brother's Ace Frehley costume. They couldn't get enough of it. My brother stood there and shined like a new penny in the glow of the spotlight. After talking with him about who their favorite member of KISS was (the lead biker's favorite was Gene Simmons) they gave him some candy and then one of the female Confederates turned to see me, lingering in the doorway and said, "Oh my goodness! She's a little angel!" and giggled. She then put some candy into my plastic pumpkin and complimented me on my bent coat hanger halo wrapped in tacky gold Christmas tree tinsel. As we walked away, my brother and I were both gloating from the unexpected positive attention and lack of injury laid upon us by the neighborhood rabble rousers.

Afterwards, we went to the local stop-and-go, Sam's Curb Market and reached our short arms deep into an ice cube filled claw foot bathtub in vain, trying to win the prizes of shiny quarters and dimes that evaded our numb fingers, deep at the bottom of the tub.