We get an average of two trick-or-treaters when Halloween is upon our town home complex. Last night we got one; a youngster dressed as Death who got himself a handful of snack-sized Skittles. Halloween is much changed since I donned a costume. Parents did not drive their kids to go trick-or-treating. If you wanted the big candy payoff, you earned it by braving the elements (it is always fifteen degrees colder on All Hallows Eve in Colorado) and walking until your feet bled. You would come home sniffling and collapse from exhaustion, not caring when your Dad stole the Snickers from your sack in the middle of the night. Town home and apartment complexes were like money in the bank for trick-or-treating back then. An orgy of corn syrup, chocolate, caramel and preservatives awaited for a kid who was willing to rip off “Trick or treat” in rapid-fire succession. I thought that with the burned out unit, we would at least get some middle-schoolers around here playing Ouija and worshiping the devil. Nothing. The Wife clicked the front porch light off at 10:15pm and died a little on the inside.
“Doesn’t anyone want candy anymore, Matty?”
“I guess not, honey.”