All Hallow’s Eve

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

Freezing rain pierced my jacket, the tulle princess gown, underlying jeans, and finally, my delicate flesh. A drooping tiara and scepter, along with saturated socks and sneakers, were only minor annoyances on the slippery jog down the roadside brickway as I attempted to keep pace with my older brothers on this most serious of missions.

Halloween. The annual Holy Grail of sugar bingeing.

We were country kids and the surrounding homes were cousins and close friends, so were spoiled with supersized candy bars, generously filled goody bags, and giant popcorn balls. Our haul of epic proportion yielded enough bounty to satisfy us daily until at least Thanksgiving, if not all the way to Christmas.

Long before the outside world intruded with child predators and confectionary saboteurs, we were armed with only a flashlight and pillowcase for hours of carefree foraging – sans parents. About four hours was all my young legs could withstand, but it was enough time to traverse the higher elevations down to the unseen around the bend below. Yearly practice had made us extremely efficient in our collective plan of attack, and we saved the most challenging part for last.

With a paucity of light poles, the inkiest destination on our route and the most mysterious was along that lowest curve. One place in particular was the creepiest. Beyond was a coveted candy neighborhood, but mustering the courage required to pass the spooky area was incredibly daunting.

An anxious breath-held trot was required to dart around in order to get to tidier domiciles. Intensely afraid of the dark and too young to traverse by myself, my  impatient senior escorts also were skittish of the ramshackle abode before us.

Peeling paint, broken shingles, and sagging steps provided only part of the eerie vignette. Overgrown foliage and a cobweb forest added to the convincingly haunted vibe.

For years, our parents had firmly planted the seed to steer clear. Never told why, our young minds, influenced by too many Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi movies, immediately wandered into the macabre. Usually as dark as a tomb, the house this year was lit up like the power company across the river. Taking us by complete surprise, the front door opened and a lady stepped out in a pink housecoat, her gray hair in a wild, witchy updo.

Hailing us in with treats, we fearfully hesitated, stymied by a kid’s dilemma of more gastronomic loot versus fears of becoming a hostage of a presumed crazy woman. The likelihood of imprisonment in a basement dungeon, never to see parents again, was a foremost thought. But one of my older and bolder siblings decisively led the way to her door. I obediently followed, more afraid of being left alone on a dark corner than being bound in a cellar.

The old woman ushered us out of the bleak October weather into her warm kitchen, where a large bowl of goodies lay on her otherwise bare table. She encouraged us to take as much as desired, and greatly enjoyed our costumed fashion show, clapping with delight as characters identified themselves.

Chatting amiably, her deeply wrinkled appearance seemed to brighten and smooth with the conversation and the smiles it brought her. She seemed both lovely and harmless, genuinely happy for a visit. There wasn’t a shred of fear in us while in her presence or unkempt space.

She walked us back to the tired veranda, bidding us goodbye along with grandmotherly advice to be careful and not stay out much longer in the raw weather. She also thanked us for coming.

I walked away from the house perplexed, my thoughts whirled like the wind. This was not a person to be feared. What secrets did our parents know? Or was it that the cover of her metaphorical book, her untidy home and private existence, was indeed judged by adults who taught us not to? That it was easier to simply draw false conclusions from an off-putting exterior instead of warmly extending a hand of kindness?

Later that rainy night, as treats and stories spilled out onto the rug, we fessed up about visiting the matron’s place. Mom and Dad exchanged looks, and curious to hear this experience with the eccentric neighbor gave polite replies of “how nice,” or “she doesn’t usually give out Halloween treats.” Her hospitality was a surprise to them, a stark contrast to her usual reclusiveness.

Relieved she was good to us, but still paranoid, they proceeded to check our candy for needle marks and anything else suspicious. The X-ray machines at the hospital had apparently been quite busy that night as the local news had given a somber warning regarding threats of local subversion. Finding nothing, we obviously had been spared of any foul play.

After that autumn, the quirky soul was rarely seen again. She eventually passed away, her home falling into further ruin. Passing by it in the car made my heart sink. This was a woman I am convinced had been misunderstood most of her years. Her quiet life appeared devoid of visitors; her unbridled enthusiasm during the brief Trick-or-Treat soiree in her kitchen attested to her social cravings.

Because of the stigma attached to her dwelling, few had sought to look past the facade. To be sure, our curiosity and stomachs wanted filled, but youthful motives aside, our choices that night included run away, which did not seem polite, or take a chance. One that serendipitously fulfilled a deep desire for connection this mature woman was in dire need of.

As the lucky, albeit rare, recipients of her benevolence, no tricks had surfaced, and one of the biggest lessons of life was gratefully learned at an early age: that treats come in all types of wrappers.