Halloween Memories of a Jersey Childhood - As a kid of the 60’s, Halloween held a special place in my heart, if not my stomach. At least, until I was too embarrassed to keep trick-or-treating. Spending a few determined hours out on the streets of Fair Lawn, NJ created a cornucopia of candy! 

Among the delicacies I might garner in my travels included Baby Ruth, Nestle Crunch, and Chunky bars. There were also M&M’s, Oh Henry, Snickers, and MilkShake bars, not to mention Mr. Goodbar and Clark Bars. Unlike the demoralizing miniatures that came years later, these were all full-size bars! 

To balance out this chocolate avalanche, some houses gave out Chuckles or Good & Fruity. If you were really lucky, a small canvas bag of Gold Mine gum or Root Beer Barrels might make an appearance. Some acceptable (but not quite as good) candy, included wax lips and harmonicas. They were novelties, but their flavor didn’t last very long. Candy necklaces were useless since they were really just for girls.

It didn’t seem possible, but there was actually such a thing as bad candy. We’d avoid those houses by exchanging intel with other bag handlers. Necco Wafers and Pixie Stix headed up this group for me. Why anyone would want to eat antacids or flavored sand made no sense at all. Good & Plenty was the diabolical opposite of its fruity counterpart. It was merely black licorice (which everyone except John knew was disgusting) hiding inside a hard shell. 

A Sugar Daddy was nothing more than petrified caramel on a stick and was fine if you wanted to break a tooth. Scooter Pies were chocolate-covered, stale graham crackers with mummified marshmallow inside. Circus Peanuts? That was flavored Styrofoam, the distant cousin of Easter Peeps. All in all, this group didn’t even deserve to be called candy.

In my early days of trick-or-treating, Mom was doing the old hand-me-down routine when it came to costumes. There was no way she was going to spend the money to get each of her kids a new costume every year. Whatever your older sibling had worn the year before was your costume for the new year. 

The year before I joined the Beggar Brigade, my older sister had been a witch. So, guess what I got to dress up as in my first year? Even at the age of five, I knew that there was something very wrong with this. Maybe Mom thought I wouldn’t notice, as I stood waiting for the older kids to finish getting ready to go. I waited self-consciously in my black pointy hat, long, straw-like, yellow hair, and a skirt. 

I mean, I was wearing a SKIRT! 

If I was a couple of years older, I would’ve recognized the warm, pervasive feeling in my face as what it was… sheer embarrassment. Since I didn’t, I went trick-or-treating anyway, and my unidentified mortification was soon replaced with candy. Tons and tons of candy, which made my humiliation all tolerable.

By the time I was eleven, I was old enough to go out on my own, and I thought this was good news. Early in the evening, I’d still have to go out with my younger brothers and sisters. Then, at 8:00, I could finally get rid of them and get another good hour in on my own. Here is where I could make some really good time. I could hit two or three houses in the same time I could previously only do one. 

Back and forth I climbed Van Duren Ave, racking up one house after another. By the time I made it to Phillip Street, I’d already doubled my previous intake. I crisscrossed this lonely road heading towards Morlot Ave when I heard a voice come from the black of the night.

“Hey, kid. Whatta ya got for me?”

I stopped dead in my tracks and looked around. A large, shadowy figure emerged from the darkness across the street and stood under a single street lamp. I could see his breath rising through the air, but I didn’t say a word.

“Whatta ya got for me?” he persisted.

It then dawned on me that I was going through my first mugging. My mind raced as I tried to size up the situation. Was he going to take my entire night’s hard work? Was he going to beat me up? I tried to stay calm, reaching into my pillowcase, searching for the most disgusting thing I’d collected so far. There it was. A box of Good & Plenty! 

He greedily grabbed the box with his villainous hands, laughed in my face, and disappeared back into the shadows. I then realized why making a solo journey could be more dangerous than I ever imagined. When I got home from my harrowing experience, I went straight to my room. I sat on my bed, emptied my bag, and looked over the embarrassment of riches. I methodically segregated my trophies by type.

In the middle of my sorting, Mom called up,

“You can have a few pieces, but when you’re done, bring the rest down. We’re going to pool all the candy so it’s fair for the younger ones.”

Pool the candy? Pool my candy? The candy I’d worked so hard for? The candy I’d almost DIED for? This was outrageous. This was unacceptable. This was… 

SOCIALISM! 

I began to feverishly unwrap candy bars with the idea of stuffing my face. I’d rather get sick than hand it over to those less deserving. Then I came to my senses, and with them, a great idea. I carefully removed my elite selections and hid them in my dresser, under my jeans and tee shirts. I then not-so-happily carried the leftovers to be pooled into oblivion.

Another year passed, and Halloween began to transform from a purely self-serving endeavor to one that was a little more charitable. This did NOT sit well with me. It was bad enough that I now had to contribute a bunch of my candy to an unworthy cause. Now, St. Anne’s school was forcing us to go trick-or-treating for something called UNICEF. Along with trying to collect candy for ourselves, we’d be slowed down by also having to collect money from our benefactors.

We were being forced to drag an orange cardboard box for unfortunate children all over the world. I didn’t like saying “trick-or-treat for UNICEF” for a couple of reasons. First, I didn’t like speaking to strangers, and I thought I’d fumble the words as I recited my speech. Second, and more importantly, I thought I’d confuse the candy-giving public. They might forget to give me candy after dropping a nickel into the box for those starving kids. Then my sister Margie made things even worse.

After stumbling my way through the whole UNICEF disaster, Margie asked me to go door-to-door with her the next day to collect canned goods for a different charitable organization. When was ALL of this charity stuff going to end?!?! Someone was trying to change the true meaning of Halloween, and I wasn’t happy about it. 

The day after my 2nd favorite holiday was over (Christmas of course was 1st), I was back out on the road, trying to help out even more people I didn’t know. It was exhausting. Armed with the same pillowcases we’d used the night before, Margie and I approached our first house. She reached up, rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later, the door swung open. A middle-aged lady appeared. Margie began,

“We’re going around the neighborhood and collecting canned goods for starving children around the world. We were hoping you might like to help.”

I had to admit it. I was impressed by her speech and thought the lady couldn’t help but give us something. Well, that “something” she was about to give us was even better than I could’ve hoped for. The door opened once again, and she told us to both open our sacks. We held them open, and she dumped half a bowl of candy in each of our bags. Margie was confused, and I was delighted.

“Um, we’re actually collecting… canned goods,” Margie clarified.

The lady smiled, looking slightly embarrassed, and told us to wait before returning with two cans of pork and beans. We’d accomplished our goal, and God had rewarded our works of charity with bonus Halloween candy —candy that we did not report back to the new socialist government on Vivian Court.

When I reached the 7th grade, I had come to the sad realization that this would be my last year of trick-or-treating. No self-respecting 8th grader could participate in this wonderful, yet childish event. So, I was determined to make the most of it. 

That day, I brought a burnt cork in a plastic bag, along with my trusty pillowcase, to school. When the 3:00 bell rang, I skipped the bus, smeared my face with cork, and trick-or-treated all the way home. This way, I’d be hitting a massive number of houses. The only problem was that more than half of the people weren’t home. I wasted a good chunk of daylight and didn't get any more candy than usual.

In the end, I spent more than half my childhood wearing some type of costume every October 31st, visiting mostly strangers’ houses in my neighborhood and beyond. Although my love affair with candy was always the driving force, the memories I’d collected along the way stayed with me for years. 

Long after the candy was gone. 

Breakfast of Champions (11) – I was Mom’s favorite. Of this I had no doubt.

She treated me so much better than all of my siblings. Why else would I get the tastiest birthday cake, the best presents, and always get to sit next to her when the family watched The Wizard of Oz? Of course, some of my younger brothers and sisters were delusional and insisted that they were actually Mom’s golden child. I knew differently. Or at least, I thought I did. 

On a balmy summer morning, I opened my sleepy eyes thanks to a faint breeze that wafted through my open screened window. I rolled over and looked around the room that I shared with my two older brothers. Paul’s bed was empty, and not surprisingly, was partially covered by a rumpled sheet and blanket. Just as unsurprisingly, John’s bed was neatly made. They were both up and already gone; John was undoubtedly working hard at his morning chores, and Paul was working just as hard to avoid his. 

I had no interest in even thinking about my chores. That was something to worry about later. My first thought was about what I should have for breakfast. Since there was no school to worry about, there was also no hot breakfast being offered. That was a luxury that Mom only supplied from September through early June. No, today I was on my own, and the choices were few. 

Summertime meant dry cereal and cold milk. Norman liked to brag about being able to choose between Cap’n Crunch, Frosted Flakes, and Fruit Loops. It was becoming apparent to me that small-family Jewish kids got the best of everything, while large-family Catholics got whatever was cheap. Although this probably had more to do with the number of mouths Mom had to feed and less with which testament we thought more important.

My selections included Grand Union’s version of Cheerios, Corn Flakes, or Fruit Rings (a poor imitation of the Kellogg’s variety). Dad’s favorite was Wheaties, a tasteless, cardboard-like cereal made strictly for adults. The very thought of it made me dread growing up and having to eat them. Hopefully, the law would change by then. Dad would add bananas, no matter their condition.

If there were too many left and turning black, he’d enthusiastically announce that once again it was “banana day.” A day on which it became your Catholic duty to choke down one of those slimy mutations, so as not to waste food which would of course be a sin. I lay motionless in my bed, contemplating my choices, and suddenly had a great idea. POTATO CHIPS! 

My room was on the second floor with a single rear window looking out over a gray shingled roof. Although potato chips were obviously a marvelous idea, even her favorite child doubted that Mom would agree. I needed to devise an ingenious plan, and being an ingenious 11-year-old, it took me no time to put such a plan together.

Since I slept in my underwear in the summer, it’d take me hardly any time to get ready. My clothes were in the drawers built directly into the wall, which was supposed to save floor space. These were the same drawers from which, only a few years earlier, I’d remove my clothes to refold. At the time, for some reason, I didn’t think Mom was up to the task. Thankfully, I grew out of that phase.

I pulled open a drawer, found my shorts and socks, and then scanned the floor. Where were my Keds? If I left them downstairs somewhere, they might be in the “Idiot Box,” a big wooden container at the bottom of the cellar stairs. This was where Mom dumped all our stuff when we didn’t put it away. I peered under my bed and breathed a sigh of relief. There they were. 

The window was just above my bed, and I quickly removed the screen. I hopped onto the floor, holding it at each end, before leaning it against the closest wall. Then, I jumped back up. With one leg still on the bed, I swung the other through the open window and onto the roof. I lifted my back leg through the window and stood up. I could see the Steinbergs’ backyard to the right in the distance.

I tiptoed across to the roof’s edge and looked down at the shed below, attached to the house. It was about a six-foot drop to the shed’s roof and was no problem for a determined kid in desperate need of potato chips.  I carefully and quietly lowered myself down. It was another six-foot drop from the top of the shed to the concrete below, where I let myself down again. My perfect plan was in motion.

The only thing I couldn’t plan for was the Steinbergs' yard. As luck would have it, no one was out there, so I could cut through undetected. This was crucial, as I needed to make it to and from the candy store as quickly as possible. I jumped over the barberry bushes, across their lawn, and hopped the chain link fence onto the Metropolitan parking lot. 

I took the shortest route possible, which was behind the second office building, onto a grassy stretch that led to Saddle River Road. I sprinted to the candy store, grabbed my morning breakfast, and headed back. In a matter of minutes, I’d returned with my big, salty bag of Wise Potato Chips, the gold standard chip of the day. My mouth was watering as I approached the shed on my return trip. 

I’d planned for all contingencies, including how to get back up to my bedroom window. To get to the top of the shed, I calmly grabbed a 5-foot ladder, leaned it against the shed, and climbed up. Next, I reached down and gently pulled the ladder up beside me. I then leaned it again, this time against the house, and ascended to the dining room roof. I was mere moments from the best breakfast ever.

I crept across the roof, got to the open window, and began to back my way into the room. I could feel one foot land on the bed, as I carefully clutched the potato chips in my right hand. Then, the other foot landed as I turned in triumph, now facing the room where I’d be enjoying my breakfast. Except, I was also facing Mom.

She was standing with her hands on her hips, staring straight through me. I said nothing. She said nothing. She then put out her hand. I knew exactly what she wanted from her formerly favorite child. I slowly reached out the bag and handed it over.

I did not have potato chips for breakfast that day.