By Robin C. Harris
I was 10 and I had never been trick-or-treating. There had always been some kind of convoluted Halloween experience planned, I think, to keep trick-or-treating from happening. I’d get my little bag of candy corn and I’d get to listen to a scary show on the radio. That was it.
I knew about it, though. At school the morning of Nov. 1, my friends would share their misadventures from the night before.
And I had never been part of that.
But this year was going to be different. My parents had promised me that they believed I was now old enough to conduct myself responsibly. I could canvass our block — a little tree-covered dirt lane south of town — and I was to do it on my own. This, they felt, would prevent the older kids in the neighborhood from leading me onto the path of the ungodly.
It was a rite of passage.
I don’t remember my costume. What was important was that I was going to get to go door to door to the five houses on our lane and beg for candy. I had planned it carefully. Ours was the next-to-last house on the block-long road, so I would start out at the main street and work my way to the end.
I would save the Coburns until last, because they were the richest. They lived in a big stone house, and they would have the neatest treats — I was sure of that.
It all went well. The neighbors were very nice, and my sack was filling rapidly. I passed my own house and proceeded to the Coburns, across the road and 100 feet on. This was going to be swell. The Coburns were old, and she’d probably have a lot of homemade cookies and candies.
Their lights were out, but I reasoned that they were in the back of the house somewhere. I’d have thought they’d at least leave their porch light on for me. I knew they were home because their Buick was in the driveway.
I rang the bell.
No answer. I rang again.
Still no answer, so I knocked.
This is weird. I didn’t plan on this. I’ve gotta do a trick, and I don’t know what it oughta be. What’ll I do? Paint their car? Nah, I’d really get in trouble for that. It’s gotta be something harmless.
I walked down the side of the house. Ah! An open window. I crept gingerly along the stone wall until I was almost there, then I ducked below it and slowly raised my head to look in. There was a bed next to the window. OK, this is perfect. I can play a trick that’ll be completely harmless. The Coburns might even think it was funny.
I reached in the window, pulled all the bedding off the bed, dragged it out through the window, threw it up on the roof and ran like hell.
I had done it. I had trick-or treated successfully, got some candy, got to play a trick and next Monday at school I’d have an adventure to share.
My mother asked me if I’d had a good time. I assured her that it had been an outstanding evening and I went happily to bed.
Next morning was Saturday. There being no school, I slept until almost 8 a.m. … until I heard the phone ring. I heard my father say something about how sorry he was, and then he stormed into my bedroom. For the next few hours the air in the Harris house was blue.
I had to go to the Coburns and apologize. I had to retrieve the bedding, bring it home, wash it, put it through the wringer and hang it all out on the line. When it was dry, I folded it and carried it dutifully over to the Coburns.
The worst of it was, my trick-or-treating days were over. I didn’t do it when I was 11. I didn’t do it when I was 12. In fact, I never did it again.
Sixty-plus years later, I didn’t let my foster kids do it, either. The Lakeport Kiwanis held a wonderful Halloween party each year at Clear Lake High School. I hope they’re still doing it. My kids all went there, had a wonderful time, got their fill of candy and no one lost their bedding.
Robin C. Harris, an 18-year resident of Lake County, is the author of “Journeys out of Darkness, Adventures in Foster Care.” A retired educator, he is a substitute teacher for Lake County schools and has recently completed two works of fiction for children and teens. He is available for tutoring in first through eighth grades. Harris can be contacted at harris.tke@att.net.
