Last
night, for the first time in well over two decades, I went out
trick or treating. Well, more accurately, we went trunk or treating.
And
since Karen and I had been invited to join two of our favorite
little ones, as their family went out themed to Alice in Wonderland,
we did our very best to join in. Last second plans led us to some
Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum items. And, very late even for last
second organization, we had the dogs join us dressed up as the
Barbie Dogs.
The
title of this essay is a joke about Halloween. Three words from
the classic trick-or-treat saying of my childhood. (Do the kids
still ask you to smell their feet? Have to admit, I don’t know.
Hmm. Research for next time, I suppose. Anyway…) It’s offered
as a joke in many ways because I don’t know what to make of Halloween.
Examples?
Sure.
I
really enjoy Halloween. But, for a variety of reasons, haven’t
celebrated it much. So, if you told me that my first attempt at
an adult costume—my first sort of thought about costume in at
least forty years, which means not counting putting on surgical
scrubs when work allowed costumes thirty years ago and I just
grabbed them because it was much better and easier than wearing
a suit—that my very first couples costume, would involve dressing
up in some way to reflect Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, you would
be absolutely right in thinking I wouldn’t have believed it.
The
costume thoughts are estimates. What I do know for certain is
that this year marked the thirtieth straight that no one rang
my doorbell and asked for candy. Not counting the house I grew
up in, I’ve lived in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts
and Florida for Halloween dates since 1994. And not once at any
of my addresses since leaving my parents has a trick-or-treater
stopped at my door.
Thirty
Halloweens. No doorbells. No ghosts or goblins or bowls of candy
presented.
Now,
in fairness, a few of those years I was out leading kids around
on their adventures covering neighborhoods and filling pillowcases.
Still, it is a fact, never handed out candy to someone in costume
at my front door as part of the festivities.
I
started out expecting kids all over the place. Bought bags upon
bags of candy the first year. Always erred on the side of being
prepared when I moved, wasn’t sure of the new surroundings and
what might happen as Halloween approached. Those actions and expectations
dwindled over the years. In fact—and here is where you might see
why I find humor in the whole thing—last year when I realized
I hadn’t bought any candy I went to my wallet. I had four dollar
bills and decided I could make that do if anyone did arrive. There
is a very good chance that if I eventually do have a couple of
kids knock on my door in some future year, they’ll wind up getting
unopened jars of peanut butter or honey, and maybe one lucky kid
will get a box of cereal.
Yesterday
morning I went out shopping to find something for the dogs. Ended
up seeing two Barbie t-shirts, and I knew that would be enthusiastically
received by Karen. (It was, and Emmie and Canasta were adorable.)
I also spotted a box of Count Chocula and grabbed that. I had
resigned myself to the idea I wasn’t going to find it this year,
so the day started off really well.
To
be fair, a box of Count Chocula and two golden retrievers dressed
up in Barbie clothes is a really sweet way to spend a day. So
not only did it start off well, it was a pretty great day throughout.
And that’s where the jokes and smelly feet really come in.
Over
the years, I’ve at times found myself accepting the fact that
quiet and alone was fine. (And, to be fair, it is. There are some
moments when quiet and alone should not only be appreciated, it
should be celebrated as one of the top things you can find.) But
I’ve often accepted quiet and alone as fine without really having
a full understanding of what getting out of the house and trying
some things might bring.
This
isn’t some essay that examines life and choices. Instead, I wonder
if—while I was having a really great time leading around some
younger kids and two exceptionally well-behaved Barbie Dogs—I
stumbled across the source of the cranky when things are labeled
cranky and old.
Is
it because we stop trying? Stop experiencing things? Just… well…
just stop. That’s it. We just don’t anymore. Whatever it may be,
we don’t, and we convince ourselves that it’s how we want it to
be.
While
slipping a t-shirt onto a dog, perhaps I discovered one of the
reasons I have been smiling more lately. Perhaps, and I don’t
think this is a longshot to believe, perhaps I can have a bit
of fun and enjoy myself. With others.
Now.
Anyone got any candy to share?