October 31, 1968. With our mom and dad recently separated, money was tight. Mom took on the first full-time job of her 38 years, and try as she might, she was often late getting home from work. At this stage in her life, she was just learning to drive, and for a time had to rely upon inconvenient public transportation to get around. We kids were expected to fend for ourselves until she got home. There was always something melancholy about evening in the fall, but even more so with mom gone until late. Still, on this Halloween night we found a way to prove that money and fun are completely unrelated.
Presumably mom was on her way home with some candy, but in the mean time, there was nothing to hand out to the little critters which would soon come begging at our front door. In fact mom hadn't shopped for groceries recently. It was still acceptable to hand out fruit at the door, and it was common to get a few apples on Halloween night. We usually inspected them carefully for razor blades or needles, but they were invariably safer than the legends we feared.
We searched through the fridge for a few pieces of produce to hand out until mom got home. There was nothing but a lone, wilted carrot in the bottom of the fridge. The sad-looking vegetable made its way into the first bewildered child's candy bag - a little girl, who was trick-or-treating completely alone. She was mortified, and stormed off pouting. Perfect! Our embarrassment over being the only house on the street without a decent handout, was transformed into a wicked delight. We searched further, and found a few dried up potatoes growing eyes at the bottom of a sack in our basement, and began handing them out. Some kids didn't notice they were getting more trick than treat. Others refused the disgusting offering and marched away, muttering something about egging our house.
Realizing that the potatoes would quickly run out, and that we needed to keep up our reputation as a family to be feared more than revered, we moved on to the next phase. My eldest sister had made a paper mch Frankenstein bust and a set of wax hands in art class. We stuffed them strategically into an old pair of overalls, which were in turn filled with crumpled newspaper. Pinning on a pair of old slippers for feet, we then hung the whole affair to the stair rail in a noose, and prepared Dr Death to frighten the little beggars off. The head wouldn't stay on top, so we cradled it in the arms and hands, placing fresh red paint along the neck and hands.
We also had an old vinyl album of movie sound effects, including a slow-creaking door and a very sinister sounding Vincent Price laughing menacingly in the background. We placed a portable record player right behind the door and turned out all the lights. This was back before anyone seriously feared unlit homes, poisoned candy or any sort of grave harm from a neighbourhood home. People still came and knocked. And when they did, we placed the needle on the right spot on the LP and very slowly pulled open the door to the eerie sound of: "Crrreeaakkk! MWA HA HA!" Then, just as the door opened far enough, we swung the stuffed "dead man" into the face of the children in the doorway and my sister let out a shrill, blood-curdling scream. Most of them ran away. A very few brave ones stayed in the doorway, expecting their reward. These were invited to walk around to the side of the house, completely in the dark, and to come inside to a dingy, shadowy basement. At that point, a large strong hand (my older brother's) would grab them by the arm and laugh violently out loud in his best Transylvanian voice: "Come in! I've been expecting you! Would you like a little drink of blood?" They would then be handed a cup of warm lemonade and be encouraged to drink it - in the dark.
During the entire evening only two children made it through the dark basement and drank the juice. Several cried and ran away. And we couldn't have been more delighted!
Eventually mom made it home with a few groceries and a small bag of caramels. But the fun was already in full swing and the candy was reserved for the brave few who made it past the vampire's "blood."
No store-bought costumes were involved. Not a penny was spent in creating the most memorable Halloween of my youth. Perhaps the old clich is true: "The best things in life are free."
