A long Trick-or-Treating's Journey into Easter
Right now,as I sit here at my comptuer, all across the Fruited Plain, the Dead are walking. Yes....Evil is afoot this night.
Witches prowl the neighborhoods, side-by-side with horrifically decayed zombies, as well as ghosts, goblins, vampires, pirates and terrible monsters.
But never fear----sprinkled in among these Evocateurs of Evil is a healthy number of superheroes....Superman and Spiderman seeming to be the most prevalent this year, but never count out "The Dark Knight"---Batman---and also the Power Rangers. And Ninjas. Clowns, princesses and others of less negative connotations also abound.
Also noted among their number are Jedi Knights, armed with their trusty, likely Wal-Mart acquired, Lightsabers; but also counted among the masses are evil Sith Lords; Darths Maul and Vader, most likely.
We don't see any Trick-or-Treaters here at our house; too far back off the main road, really, and there are only two houses on the drive anyway, so it really wouldn't pay to take the time away from more.....profitable.....neighborhoods.
I'll never forget my own most "profitable" Halloween excursion. It was 1978, and I had just turned 11. That was the year Michael Myers first appeared on the Scream scene, menacing a young Jamie Lee Curtis and, along the way, giving "Halloween" another, much paler, face altogether.
My parents had decreed that I was, at long, long last, old enough to go out Trick-or-Treating ON MY OWN. Holy crap! Three whole hours of door-knocking, chocolate-and- candy-coated bliss and freedom. I couldn't wait.
I donned my mask and costume; I was a bum with a (rubber) butcher knife. Hey, hadda get SOMETHING scary in there, and big Mike Myers had had quite an effect on the youngsters in my day.
Anyway....at school earlier that afternoon, my friend Dan and I had made a pact to go out together that evening, so I made my way down the street to his house, dodging the clumps of early-in-early-out-go-gitters, mainly the unfortunate youngsters and toddlers (who, I contemptuously sniffed, STILL had go out WITH THEIR MOMMIES or DADDIES) who had early bedtimes, and so would not be enjoying the freedoms and hedonistic, worldly pleasures one of my vastly superior trustworthiness, responsibility and maturity would.
I got to Dan's house; alas and to my vast displeasure, his mom had decreed that we needed a chaperone.
I---respectfully, but it was hard...oh, so hard---pointed out that MY parents had allowed ME to go out alone, and Dan was even a month or two older. But no....she would have nothing of it.
Dan's uncle, Gene, was in for a visit, and she had asked him to accompany us, going along to supervise the evening's fright-filled and dentally disastrous fun and festivities.
Ooooo-kaaaay.
Whatever would get us out there; now Gene, Dan's uncle, was home on leave from the military. Uncle Gene was a proud US Marine----and a Drill Instructor at Parris Island.
Dan and I were kids, a little chubby, perhaps, and out of shape. He was none of these things. In shape, disciplined and motivated---that was Gene the Marine. At some point in the first five minutes, he had seemingly decided that we, too, needed a little Parris Island in our little lives.
Over the course of the evening, Gene the Marine marched us probably---as I think back now, as an adult---five miles, hustling all the way.
We started at Dan's house, at the West end of Fairmont Avenue, walked all the way up and out one side of Fairmont, up to where Wheeling, WV becomes the Mozart area, into Mozart a little ways, then back down the other side of Fairmont. From there, he walked us down one side of 29th Street, where I lived, and up the other.
Then, up one side of 29th street hill, nearly to Bethlehem, and down the other side. My grandparents lived in Bethlehem; I thought, through my haze of fatigue and sweat under my rubber mask, that he might actually make us walk all the way to their house for candy.
Huffing an puffing, Dan I started pleading with him, coming back down on Fairmont, mind you, to let us stop; but no....GI Gene insisted, time and again, that we keep moving, and we did. He refused to let us stop.
We hit every house, apartment or business that was giving candy. Door-to-door....knock or ring the bell..."Trick-or-Treat!"...get the stuff....hurry up, now..next house! Keep moving! Move it! Not much time!
My mom had given me one of those bigass shopping bags you used to get at Sears....thick paper with the little handles on top; at some point on 29th street, I think it was, one of the handles broke from the weight of all the candy.
I pointed out this serious malfunction, saying (hopefully) that this really was a good time to turn it all in; but Gene simply took out his trusty pen knife, cut me a new handhole, and off we went.
We were out an hour past Trick-or-Treat time; I got home just after nine o'clock, clutching my by now torn, battered and bulging---and full---shopping bag. I made it just in time for bed. Needless to say, I had little trouble sleeping that night and, I'm sure, neither did Dan.
To be fair, I have to admit, despite my vast misgivings at the time, that Gene the Marine, in his fervor and drive to motivate us, had made it a good night's take. When I got my annual Easter Basket the following Spring, I was still making my way through the last dregs of my Halloween Haul.
So; wherever you are, Gene the Marine, Happy Halloween....and thanks for the memory.
Same to you, my friends at JU.