My Hallowe'ens were better/worse than yours

Why they were better

Some people say that children growing up in big cities miss out on important aspects of childhood. I say, those people have never thought about Hallowe'en. Hallowe'en is vastly improved by urban high-density living.

I grew up in an apartment complex of two buildings, each over 20 stories. In the week leading up to Hallowe'en, a sheet of paper would be posted in each elevator so that residents participating in Hallowe'en could list their apartment number. On the fateful night, we would copy down the list of active apartments. Then it was simply a matter of taking the elevator to the top floor, starting with 21B, C, and F, or whatever it might be, and taking the stairs down to 20.

This is the most highly efficient form of candy-gathering known to child. You worked the building like a typewriter, across one floor and then down a row to the next. You didn't need to waste time on decoding Hallowe'en-participation symbols like carved pumpkins, because you had the list in front of you. (Added benefit for residents, those not wishing to serve treats didn't have to hide in the back rooms with the lights off.)

And best of all, because you never went outside, your parents stopped feeling the need to supervise you after you turned, say, 8. Not to mention you avoided the perils of subjecting your costume to the weather. It was independent candy-gathering paradise.


Why they were worse

My parents, bless their thrifty, wholesome, Puritan souls, didn't believe in giving out Kit Kats like the rest of the world. They were the hated household that handed out boxes of raisins for Pete's sake (Dr Hyde, incredulous: "And nobody ever egged your apartment?"). On a few occasions, my mother made giant batches of chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin cookies instead, and we tied them up in little plastic baggies for dispensation, so those were the good years.

Even worse, they liked to give out noisemakers. Ah, but not plastic dime-store noisemakers. My parents had determined that a great fun toy for young children was...wait for it...bubble wrap. They would save up the bubble wrap that came in packages throughout the year, and then actually cut it into somewhat smaller squares so as not to run out on Halloween. "You can pop the bubbles, like this! POP!" my mother explained brightly to each dubious child.

The parents who accompanied younger kids quickly masked their astonishment with praise for the "creativity" of this idea. (And in my parents' defense, the 4-7 year old set usually did get a kick out of the stuff, either popping the bubbles one by one, or, for the adventurous souls, laying the sheet down on the ground and jumping on it for maximum effect.)

The older children were generally less successful at disguising their contempt. (Dr Hyde: "You didn't at least get toilet papered?" Me: "Hard to mess with someone's place when they're on the 18th floor.") When I was younger, of course I thought that bubble wrap was a pretty decent hand-out, but as I grew up I began to see Hallowe'en as vaguely shameful, particularly when I had to help my parents cut the bubble wrap into pieces. Anyhow, for those of you who know me, it probably helps to understand my psychology, that my parents thought that raisins and bubble wrap were treats on the most candy-filled holiday of the year.

Dr Hyde and I hand out Kit Kats.