Ah, Halloween. That blessed time of the year where talking to strangers was approved and accepting their candy was applauded. It was also the one time of year where said candy was the price I could afford. Free.
Growing up, my parents frowned on the unnecessary expenditure of money. Those vital green bills that are tirelessly worked for are for saving, not spending, and most definitely not for spending upon sugar. I can count on one hand the number of times I purchased candy throughout my entire childhood.
And so, with this brief understanding of my upbringing, you can see why Halloween was such an exalted holiday in my home. My siblings and I would trick-or-treat for hours with unabashed enthusiasm. We were the first ones out in the neighborhoods that swarmed with energetic youngsters and the last to retire, always with bags overflowing with the stuff of life, sugar.
Plans were made weeks, even months, in advance as to which neighborhoods were the most lucrative. It was all fine and well for someone to give a meager handful of Smarties, but these were abysmal prizes in comparison to the ultimate goal, the king-sized candy bar.
One year I had the blissful joy of being able to journey to the coveted neighborhood. Filled with McMansions that housed doctors, lawyers, and foreign elites of the community, these homes were notorious for offering king sized candy bars. Yet there was a catch. These candy givers were stingy and would only offer the ultimate prize to youths that were previously known to them. So when my cousin invited me to traverse the fields of candy gold with her and a friend who lived in this elite neighborhood, I jumped at the chance.
We traipsed through the neighborhood, admiring the massive entryways, the latest in Halloween décor, and gloried in accepting the largest candy bars my hands had ever held. Even the skeptical looks from a few of the residents when we insisted I was a local child didn’t dampen my excitement of the night. With a pillowcase full of my coveted treasure, I gleefully started for home.
Upon arriving I entered the house only to be reminded of the one thing that all children hate to hear. Community bowl! That holding cell for all your hard won chocolate to be placed under the watchful care of parents. Parents, who then require their own tax on the candy.
In a fit of panic and desperation, I plunged through the depths of our house, into the dungeon I called a room. This room was filled with a number of fellow inmates in the form of porcelain dolls. It was to these dolls I turned to for help.
On other occasions, I had made these dolls, with their vapid blank eyes, stare at the entrance of our room, so as to deter the unwelcomed entrance of younger siblings. Finding this trick rather useful, I felt there was only one true hiding spot that would guarantee safety for my precious candy… under the folds of these dolls' dresses. Into the bonnet of one doll went my York Peppermint Patty, into the muff of another went a Milky Way, and under the billowing skirts of a third went my Twix Bar. And so on, until every hard earned candy bar had been well hidden from the demanding stomachs of the family members upstairs.
Into the communal bowl went the candies too small to be worth hiding. My parents were none the wiser. There was no differentiation between my candies and that of my other siblings, so it was of no consequence to me when my father announced he was taking his parent tax of our proffered sweets. As for the king-sized candy bars? Those remained safely hidden in my room for me to eat at my leisure throughout the remainder of the school year.
Jessica Kidd is from Southwest Montana
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