By Fred Moreno
Everyone has a “least favorite list.” Mine includes the Yankees, Barney Frank, lentils, Bill Maher, kids who say, “I’m seven going on eight” and did I mention the Yankees? But number one on that list has to be Halloween. Here’s why:
Once upon a time in a not-too-distant land, there were massive battles between my mom and I come the end of October, battles I very rarely won. My mom insisted that I join “everyone else” and get involved with the trick-or-treating nonsense.
“I don’t want to wear a costume!” I would wail. But to make my mom happy, I’d grab a sheet from the hamper and make my rounds as the “Dirty Casper.” Because I was seven, I was allowed to go around the corner by myself. I took advantage of it by making a left while my fellow ghouls made a right. I went to our local candy store, bought 50 Tootsie Rolls, returned home and said it was the most fun I’ve ever had.
When I became a teenager, it was on to bigger and better things like shaving cream and eggs. My mom would give me more eggs than Farmer Gray had and so much shaving cream that my dad wasn’t able to shave for two weeks. Her reasoning to my dad was, “At least he’s beginning to socialize!”
After I met JoAnn at age 19, she found it necessary to go to all these idiotic costume parties. I just wanted to stay home and watch the Ranger game. However, because I was afraid that she would dump me for “not being social”, I’d drag myself to these “Guess Who I’m Dressed As?” parties, where I sat in the corner like a ghost.
Since JoAnn was less than 110 pounds back then and I was hovering around 135, the costume choices presented no challenge. One year I dressed as a toothbrush and JoAnn a zipper. I had to keep reminding her to stick out her tongue and at least be a workable zipper. Another year, she went as a parking meter. When I wedged a quarter in her left eye, they just handed us the Best Costume trophy! All this garbage ended once I realized she wasn’t going to dump me.
When I became a teacher, it didn’t take me long to realize that Halloween was the worst day of the school year. Rumor had it that major egg attacks would take place at dismissal. Little did they know that it was the teachers who started the rumor to get the kids to stay home. One year a major “attack” did take place, but as always, I was way ahead of the enemy. I egged my own car as soon as I got to work.
When my daughters came of age, I would escort them around only because I wanted to be paid back for all the chocolate I gave away before they were born. We’d hit every town west of Riverhead. “Dad,” they would say, “it’s already 11 o’clock and there’s school tomorrow.” Up and down the driveways they went. I’d wait in the street and gesture in Italian at any homeowner who short-chocolated them.
As the years passed, the girls would bring home more cash than candy. Eventually, I had no choice than to end their trick-or-treating years. I thought it was time, considering that they were using their Halloween cash to make their car payments.
Now the girls are married and Halloween night at the Moreno household has been replaced by silence. I mean literally. You see, unbeknownst to my wife, I disconnect the doorbell and for good measure I attach one of those blow-up swimming pool rafts to the door so that even the knocking wouldn’t
be heard.
My wife wonders why the ghosts and goblins avoided our house. “And we bought so much candy,” she says in dismay.
“Well, JoAnn, looks like we’re gonna have to sacrifice our diets and eat the 18 pounds of Snickers ourselves.”
My daughters called the other night and asked if Pop-Pop would take Kyle, Shane and Elena around the neighborhood like he used to do with their mommies. The only thing was, they also wanted Pop-Pop to wear a costume. So I grabbed a dirty sheet from the hamper and this time watched my grandchildren sprint up the driveways, knock on the doors and collect their treats.
Guess I feel differently about Halloween than I used to. I wonder why? Perhaps, as Bob Dylan said, “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” Happy Halloween.
