Editor’s note: Here is a selection of letters from our readers on their most notable Halloween memories. Due to the significant volume we received, several letters are appearing online only, also on Saturday.
Trick-or-treating for days
The Hegewisch community of Chicago in the 1950s was made up of mostly blue-collar workers from the nearby industrial plants. Unlike today’s suburban homes, there were no special Halloween decorations of pumpkins, ghosts, witches or orange lights. A porch light signaled to youthful trick-or-treaters that a reward would be given to those who rang the doorbell.
And despite the lack of cellphones, word quickly spread of homes that dropped coins in your bag.
But one thing distinguished the celebration from most others: The solicitation of treats was not limited to one night. Starting from the eastern section of Hegewisch called “Arizona,” we traversed west until we reached the western edge, the “back of the park,” over several days.
No donor seemed to mind the early candy petitions nor the lack of our unsophisticated costumes. It was a time of sincere giving and gracious receiving.
— Bob Paszczyk, Tinley Park
A sister faithful to her brother
Despite my best efforts, holidays when my children were young didn’t always pan out as planned. The blueprints for gaiety unrolled in my mind were rarely executed as intended by my little boy with autism. He had his own ideas, one year developing a physical aversion to birthday cake, for example.
Halloween, though, was one celebration I could count on to at least resemble the normal-family ideal I aimed for when my children were small.
Daniel learned quickly that orange decorations meant a trip to Didier Farms, where he opted without fuss for the first pumpkin he saw. He enjoyed the jack-o’-lantern creation process, squeezing the slick pulp between his fingers, planting the votives firming inside the hollowed shells, then sitting outside, arms crossed and focused, to study the flickering candlelight winking from the pumpkins by the door.
He tolerated every costume I devised for him, ranging from baby cow to cowboy and green M&M to white, floaty ghost. He expressed no preferences but never balked at my selections, even the regrettable Mr. Potato Head ensemble of 1997, a choice bitterly scorned by my daughter, Natalie, which I’ll never live down if she has anything to say about it.
Daniel didn’t mind it, though. He marched out the door, clutching his plastic pumpkin with enviable nonchalance, touring the neighborhood with his sister, who swallowed her shame and behaved with typical loyalty to her little brother.
I see them still, their eager, costumed figures heading down the sidewalk as dusk settled in, Natalie holding Daniel’s hand protectively in her own.
“Say ‘trick or treat,’ Daniel,” she coaxed as each door was opened. “‘Trick or treat!’” Sometimes he’d utter a proximation of the phrase but more often just grabbed for the goods, Natalie issuing thanks for both of them before hurrying to the next house in line.
These scenes remain vivid 30 years later: the warm glow of light spilling from doorways onto their expectant faces, Daniel reaching without fanfare into the offered bowl, Natalie gently coaching him, their unique bond deepening all on its own.
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— Kristen M. Scott, Deerfield
A sobering lesson on age
When we were 14 years old, my best friend Connie and I got a rude awakening about life while begging for treats on a chilly Halloween evening.
We knew we were older and bigger than the kids running up and down the sidewalks in search of an inviting house. But for us, it wasn’t the lure of actually scoring candy and other goodies. No, it was because we were fooling everyone who opened their doors, greeting us like we were the cutest things they had ever seen in their lives. The treats were just frosting on the cake, so to speak, and some goodies really did have frosting.
But our charade came crashing to an end when a very stern man opened his door, noted that Connie and I were both well over 5 feet tall, and told us to scram. We were not kids, he shouted; we were too old to horn in on a night meant for children only. With a slam of his door, our night of dubious frivolity was over.
My friend and I spent the next hour sitting on a curb eating candy but also pondering the mysteries of life. Too young to drive. Too young to smoke. Too young for beer. But too old to celebrate Halloween going door to door.
Life was complicated. And sometimes cruel.
— Kathleen Melia, Niles
A kind treat after a trick
I grew up in a central Illinois town where Halloween was a time when children were safe to have fun and do tricks without a grown-up monitoring us.
As children, my sisters and brother always started to prepare for the fun night a few weeks ahead of time. We’d get the cardboard box we called the “Halloween box” off the closet shelf and begin seeing what we could put together for a costume. It had all sorts of old beads, hats, baggy pants, masks and homemade ghost costumes, but no manufactured outfits. We also got ready for the “trick” part of our Halloween. Living near a cornfield, we would gather a few ears and religiously shuck the kernels into a Hills Bros. coffee can, finishing with blisters on our thumbs.
Then on the “big night,” we’d be on our way, costumed, carrying some corn and our treat bag.
Many homes had wooden porches, so we’d toss a handful or two of corn onto a porch, which caused a loud clattering sound, and we’d run. I remember one Halloween, when I was quite little, returning to trick-or-treat at the house I had just “corned.” The neighbor looked at me and told me he thought I was the one who made all that racket on his porch.
My frightened eyes peeking through the eye holes in my mask probably told him he was right. He still smiled and gave me a treat.
I still remember that night and that kind neighbor.
— Janice Weindorf, Chicago
Life and the candy were good
Cool weather, dropping leaves and lots of candy: It must be Halloween. Growing up in a small suburb called Norridge northwest of Chicago, nothing could be better. My older brothers would rush out with pillowcases as they had their plans to get as much candy as possible. Their secret was the apartment buildings on Lawrence Avenue where they scored big because not many kids went there. Pillowcases were half filled when they returned in the dark, so they must have been right!
My brother and I would venture around the blocks by our house, and as we went, our group would get bigger as more and more kids would join us. After all, we were the baby boomers — born in the 1950s, but we didn’t know it then. There was no wondering what we would be as Mom would buy an outfit we could grow into.
I was a nurse, and how I loved my costume! It was a white uniform with a red crisscross tie, a blue cape that fit over my shoulders and a red cross hat that I had to bobby-pin to my hair. I used that costume for four years, and when it was really cold, I could wear my coat under my cape.
I think of how people were so trusting then. Some people would leave a bowl of candy on their front stoop if they weren’t home. One neighbor in particular who had ornate iron railings would weave a huge strand of gumballs through it for us to take our treat.
Life was good, and so was the candy.
— Bernadette Marcis, Schaumburg
My dad the talented artist
As a child, I always looked forward to creating my Halloween costume. My dad was an amazing and talented artist who helped me come up with a creative costume as well as put on my makeup for the costume.
Some of those costumes included a clown, werewolf and flapper. The best memory was when my dad dressed up as Count Dracula with a black cape, top hat and very believable makeup. We walked through the neighborhood treat-or-treating. My dad, while not saying a word, floated through the neighborhood. Moms and children who answered the door were so scared!
My dad instilled in me my love of Halloween at an early age. I am 64 years old, and to this day, my husband and I still dress up for Halloween.
Thinking back to those wonderful Halloweens as a kid brings up such fun memories of my wonderful and talented dad!
— Mimi Gember, Wheeling
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