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Janet Sheridan: Halloween remembered

Janet Sheridan
Janet Sheridan
Sheridan_Janet

Except for the miniature Snickers bars, I could do without Halloween.

As a teacher, I presided over the dance of the imps and acted as a wardrobe mistress during the school party: adjusting wigs knocked askew, pinning up Tinker Bell’s tulle and re-tying Superman’s cape, ripped off in a tussle with Igor.

As a partygoer, I lacked the imagination needed for clever costuming.



Once Mom quit creating my Halloween get-ups, I was at a loss. While other adults made a quick trip to the thrift store and found everything needed to parade as Swiss cheese or a sexy cowgirl, I tied on a sheet, stuck leaves in my hair, and went as an embarrassed Roman.

Growing up in a rural area, I never reaped the benefits of trick-or-treating. It was a pointless exercise in Lake Shore, though one year Bob, Carolyn and I tried.



After donning old clothes and smearing extra dirt on our faces, we trudged as hopeful hobos to our nearest neighbors, Aunt Bertha and Uncle Henry, a mile away.

We swatted each other with the empty pillowcases we carried for our plunder, anticipated the mounds of candy our generous relatives would heap upon us, and plotted our trick if they didn’t: Bob wanted to chase their cows; Carolyn and I argued for yelling “Boo” under their window.

Since our great aunt and uncle had never seen a trick-or-treater and usually went to bed with the sun, we hauled empty pillow cases home — after squeaking “Boo!” outside their bedroom and fleeing, hearts hammering with excitement.

Knowing the uselessness of such treks, and wanting to protect the outhouses that tempted teenagers on Halloween, the folks of our farming region had a community party as a diversion.

In a crowded gym decorated with streamers of black and orange crepe paper, we bobbed for apples, drank root beer ladled from milk cans frosted by dry ice, and watched cartoons shown on a bed sheet stretched across a corner.

Despite the different booths available for our entertainment, my friends and I preferred crazed chases through the crowd.

We raced about, tripped on our costumes, and tried to choke one another with streamers yanked from the ceiling.

But before we could have such fun, we had to enter the gym along an endless hallway turned into a spook alley consisting of the adults of the community in disguise, seeking revenge for their outhouses.

I remember holding my mother’s hand, walking the dimly lit hall, and wondering why Mrs. Aiken wore a pointed black hat and insisted her bowl of spaghetti was worms. I had the literal mind of a toddler and didn’t yet understand the deliciousness of being scared out of my mind.

By second grade, I believed.

My stomach knotted in anticipation as I made my way through a giant spider web fashioned from gauze and entered the spook alley along with my mean cousin, Blake, and best friend Deanne, known for fainting.

We made it by the witch with worms, the open coffin with a corpse that moaned, “Help me, please, help me,” and the ghost that lurked in a doorway sobbing and clanking chains.

But when an ice cold hand reached through a black curtain and grabbed Blake’s wrist, all hell broke loose: Blake attacked, I yelled, “Get ‘em good, Blake,” and Deann swooned.

We were escorted from the hall, and our parents were told.

By sixth grade, my friends and I had seen it all.

We sauntered along the spook alley making cynical comments and counted the years until one of us could get a driver’s license, and we could cruise in search of outhouses.


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