Life in the Ville by Jimmy Del Ponte

I remember trick or treating back in the day. There was no such thing as “fun size” candy. We got full size bars or “dentist’s delights.” At the height of our childhood Halloween fun, we’d have to go home to empty out our pillow cases and go to more houses for more candy. Remember looking at the lousy treat the neighbor would drop in your sack? The biggest rip-off would be the houses that plopped an apple into your bag. No one wanted a stupid apple for Halloween plus it would crush the good stuff! The only thing worse than fruit was the nut who would put a handful of loose popcorn in there.

Ben Cooper Halloween costumes were purchased at Woolworths, Grants and at Bradlees in later years. That’s if you were lucky. Frugal families would make their kids throw together their own original costumes.

The year I was Zorro will always be stuck in my mind. My parents pulled a Ralphie from A Christmas Story on me. They wouldn’t let me get a sword. They bought me a lame rubber knife instead. That memory is right up there with the brown shoes with my white holy communion suit fiasco. No wonder I’m in therapy!

Remember if Halloween night was cold? The biggest bummer was when your parents made you wear your stupid coat over your costume. Yes, there were many pitfalls to trick or treating back then. Those masks got hot and sweaty too. And if you chose to wear makeup it would always smudge and smear.

The older kids would trick or treat in packs of about 15-20.

My dad would have to inspect all the candy before we were allowed to dig in. A wise thing to do, especially nowadays. Of course, he didn’t know about the pound and a half of candy we’d eat before we got home. He always snuck a couple of Nestles Crunch bars for himself while conducting his inspection.

Hated treat list: fruit, loose hard candy, loose popcorn, any granola product, pencils, loose pennies, juice boxes, or yogurt.

No bite me size candy!

A true right of maturity was when our parents stopped taking us trick or treating to our grandparents, aunts and uncles’ and neighbors houses and let us go with our friends.

I can still smell that cheap and flimsy plastic mask. The elastic usually broke on the first day you got it.

A friend of mine had a funny memory. One year his dad gave him his mother’s beret to wear, along with a ripped sweatshirt. He then smudged cigar ashes on his face for a beard. He then said, “There you go! You’re a beatnik, now get the hell out there!”