The Unsung Heroes of Halloween

By Anthony J. Rapino

Every year we celebrate the many memories and products that have filled our Halloweens with wonder.  We list our favorite candies, costumes, and TV specials.  We regale our friends with stories of parties and bon fires.  We even rank our top haunted houses and pumpkin patches.  Yet in all of our stories, in all of our pumpkin-filled remembrances, we often leave out an essential element.  We gloss over those unsung heroes of Halloween.

We forget the treat-givers.

In my long (some would say too long) trick or treating career, I’ve met hundreds of treat-givers on Halloween night.  They come in all shapes and sizes, each with their own traditions and peculiarities.  Some are forgettable, others all blend together in my mind as an archetype, and still others stand out like glowing Jack-o’-Lanterns in an abandoned graveyard.

It’s my belief that these Halloween warriors should be celebrated like heroes of old, their stories passed down via the verbal tradition as a lone storyteller gathers costumed friends and family around a roaring October fire.  Even the ones who only smile and hand us candy corn deserve respect, because they chose to participate in the most magical night of the year.  They could have easily turned off their lights and pretended not to be home.  But they didn’t.

These basic treat-givers--let’s call them The Front Line--were the ones who laid the groundwork for all of my Halloween memories.  I may not recall faces or even the exact candy they gave me, but they are the ones who make up that fine meshwork of Trick or Treating.

My friends and I (still young enough that our parents were there, waiting on the sidewalk) ran to the first house of the night.  They had the front porch light on, and in the window we saw a pumpkin or two, so we knew they were ready and waiting.  They didn’t deck the house out with many decorations--this couple representative of so many others--yet did just enough to tip off the trick or treaters.  We knocked on the door and screamed in unison, “Trick or treat!”

The door opened on a middle-aged couple who, like their house, were similarly unadorned.  There were no costumes, but there was a big bowl of candy that they lowered and let us pick from.  They smiled and watched us scavenge the bowl for our favorite pieces, trying our best to avoid the generic stuff like Smarties and candy corn.  When we were done, we ran off, already forgetting the faces of these brave soldiers. 

A little farther down the road, we found our next kind of treat-giver.  Let’s call them the Absentee Treaters.  These were the people who probably loved Halloween just as much as the most ardent trick or treater, and who were out making their own haunted memories.  Being that they loved the holiday so much, they couldn’t bear to leave the trick or treaters wanting, so they placed a bowl of candy on the front porch with a note that said “Please Take Just One.”  We loved the Absentee Treaters for their goodwill and humanity, but even so, by time we got there, the candy had all been taken by one or two kids.  We shook our fists at the bat-filled sky and cursed their greedy little souls.

NOTE: Video below contains some language.

Further still on this magical Halloween street that survives only in my mind, we discovered the Experimental Treaters.  These were those peculiar folks that either forgot to buy candy or had planned on giving out atypical “treats” for some other nefarious reason my kid-brain could never comprehend.

One such Experimental Treater in Brooklyn had come to the door of his apartment, then calmly handed my friends and I full-sized posters still in the tube.  He explained in a distant way that he had so many posters from work, he didn’t know what else to do with them.  Still others would plop into our bags random doodads and doohickeys.  I had received pennies, floss, unwrapped candy, books, magazines, and on one frightening occasion a condom.  From these houses, I backed away slowly. 

Nearing the end of the street, down into the dark cul-de-sac surrounded by trees, awaited my favorite type of treat-giver: The True Believers.  These are the psychos after my own heart.  The ones that were not content to simply hand out candy.  They were compelled to dress up, decorate, create mini haunted yards, and embrace the holiday with a fervor usually reserved for the children.

One such family stands out in my mind as the pinnacle of my youthful trick or treating.  We came upon the house in quiet awe.  The entire front yard was covered with spider webs hanging from the trees and spooky figures erected along the pathway.  Somewhere a fog machine hummed, creating a low-lying mist illuminated by the green and red lighting placed throughout the yard. 

The house itself had many of the die cut paper decorations that were so popular in the 80’s.  But they also had older, vintage light-up blow molds in the windows: pumpkins and scarecrows with black cats, all glowing orange and brilliant.  The decorations were one thing, but what happened next ensured I’d never forget these treat-givers.

It started off low from somewhere near to the house, perhaps in the garage.  My first thought was, “Why are they going to mow the lawn at night?”  But that wasn’t quite right.  There was an edge to the rumbling sound.  A revving.

From behind a bush--still yards away--a masked man jumped out and brandished a chainsaw over his head.  He revved it again, and then gave chase, screaming and laughing.  Luckily I was nearly a teenager, and even as we turned to run, we knew it was all a gag.  My friends and I laughed and ran around the front yard, dodging hanging ghosts and the chainsaw wielding maniac.

Eventually he turned off the chainsaw and lifted the mask.  He called out, “Come on!” and waved us to where his wife waited with a cauldron of hot apple cider and giant bowls of full-sized candy bars.  We hung around for awhile, drinking our cider and watching the man scare the Smarties out of other kids.  It was the sort of thing that probably wouldn’t fly these days.  And while I’m sure the man must have known to holster the chainsaw when the kids were too young, something tells me that it was the kind of prank only the 80s or 90s could endure.

After some time, we headed back out onto the dark street, where other kids and parents walked in costume, carrying flashlights and glow sticks, swinging plastic orange pumpkins filled with candy.  This road now only exists in my mind, but I like to visit it now and then.  The decorations, the treats, and the ones who made it all possible still live there, and it makes me happy to know I can always stop by and have a cup of apple cider with them.  More importantly, it reminds me to always go above and beyond, because you never know whose memories you are going to help create during the next haunted Halloween.  

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