The question, posed by the presenter of the “The Animated History of Halloween in America” ​​conference held at the Bethpage Public Library on October 30, “What are your memories of Halloween?” Prompted me to travel back in time. towards those I consider mine. .

My first, at an age that was less than seven years old, happened in the living room of our Brooklyn apartment. Inexplicably inspired by the atmosphere and perhaps intrinsically aware of its lurid purpose, I sat on the floor in front of the round coffee table topped by a bowl of sweets and said to my mother, wanting to enhance the mystery of the room: “Let’s turn off the lights. off. “

She did. Absorbing the feeling herself, she returned from the kitchen with a dish towel on her head, emitting a ghostly note. Without waiting for sight or sound, I found that my feelings traveled to the edge of fear, but instantly realizing that my mother was behind them, I witnessed them melt into loving acceptance.

Our shared experience, despite the confines of the room, was limitless and made Halloween a reality.

The annual school trips to the pumpkin patch were learning experiences, but the lessons were about me, which I later failed to understand. Searching in vain for the perfectly shaped pumpkin, I followed the plow lines across the field, unable to locate one as I struggled with that perfectionist part of me that produced dissatisfaction when I failed to pull it off. Rejecting pumpkin after pumpkin, I realized that the idealized image of them in my mind did not necessarily match that in reality.

I finally concluded that the smaller the size, the rounder they seemed.

A call to get back on the bus left me at a fever pitch, as I grabbed the last minuscule with resignation, completely unhappy.

The fact that the other students, who wore larger and more grotesquely shaped ones, looked so pleased only added to my perplexity. Perhaps his satisfaction was more akin to that of oblivion.

Older and now on Long Island, I considered Halloween as synonymous with escaping from myself, hiding behind and assuming the identity of the costume I was wearing, and imagination, as the atmosphere was laden with fear and mixed with surreal ghosts. With the creak of leaf-covered sidewalks, I passed the witch, vampire, black cat, skeleton, ghoul, and the illuminated faces of Jack-o-lantern, gliding into the cold and dark dimension of October 31st. , just the mind of a child. could conjure.[smindcouldconjure[smindcouldconjure

Unconstrained, the approach to the houses was allowed, welcomed and attracted, while the magical “trick or treat”, repeated with such regularity and speed, melted into an indistinguishable sound with each bell. But the adults knew what it meant and confirmed it with the sound of the occasional candy corn, lollipops, chocolates, and apples (it messed up the whole purpose of the event), banging on my plastic bag, pumpkin, or decorated haunted house.

The streets were packed with children dressed in costumes, as if it were the holiday rush hour after dark, which sometimes required waiting on the sidewalk until a Frankenstein family cleared the front door, giving the green light to the next group of witches and Cinderellas to continue. . Candy, like gold, awaited, and the walk could not be justified unless the seeker exhausted all veins.

(I won’t mention the first few years when trick-or-treating geo-restrictions were imposed on me and bypassed them with at least a second circuit to the same houses after a quick wardrobe change.)

“Did you come back so soon?” my mother asked.

“No,” I replied, “just in passing.”

The night before also provided another kindred spirit experience with my mother as we prepared the treasure. The dining room table turned into a production line sported the stack of full moon printed bags, each containing the products: peanut chews, Milky Ways, Baby Ruths, chocolate competitors Hershey and Nestle, and Indian corn. required. Varies by year.

“I loved making the bags,” my mother would later relate. Me too, because we did it together.

Demand exceeded supply one year forced my “emergency solution” – a reach in the cabinet to fill the bags with everything I could find.

Although I don’t remember which item was not a candy, it inflated the bag, prompting the next princess-adorned container at my door to exclaim, “Oh well!”

Embarrassed, I had convinced her that size mattered more than content, but I was relieved that I didn’t have to show disappointment when she opened it later. I would not have wanted to receive it either.

I loved inspecting the costumes, which magically concealed many of the faces I knew as well as mine, but not poor Loretta, who lived around the block. You could hear the hiss of his asthma as he approached the door. Sometimes I felt sorry for her as she tried to ignore her grief, seeking to have fun and fit in with others as best she could.

Age, for me at least, apparently had little to do with my decline for the terrifying occasion, as long as it only existed in my mind. On the school bus home from high school on Halloween, one of my fellow students pointed out the window and exclaimed, “Look at those jerky little kids, still trick-or-treating!”

Swallowing my embarrassment, I sublimated her in excitement, eagerly eager to change into my costume when I got home to join them. When you got back to a certain point, you were supposed to have transcended this mindless activity that was no longer serving you, I guess. But I also assumed that I was one of “those jerky little kids” and because of the joy I experienced, I was proud of it, in my own world, where Halloween existed for me. Just don’t tell them, whoever they were, anyway.

Even greater, I was inspired by the images of the occasion, which, to some extent, always began with the change of the calendar in September and the first day of school. The days were shortened. The temperatures dropped. The trees wore fall dresses of burnt orange, flaming red, corn husk yellow, and bark brown. The houses were adorned with their witches, ghosts, black cats and pumpkins. And I slipped into the dimension and came out of myself every October 31 like clockwork.

Inspired by all of this, I wrote three Halloween-themed short stories and several poems.

Now that I’m too old for the traditional trick or treating (I guess I finally gave in), I started the annual tradition of visiting the Otto the Ghost exhibit at Hicks Nursery in Westbury, buying the pumpkins and gourds needed for decoration, and combining the event. with the dinner. in a unique restaurant. And he always closed the evening with another “It’s the Big Pumpkin Charlie Brown” show. I lost count of how many times I’ve seen it as the years go by, but it just couldn’t be Halloween without it.

It was so indicative of the holidays and what I felt. But that may be because there was always, well, maybe even a lot, of Charlie Brown in me. I wonder if there is little in all of us. However, unlike those who rode the school bus with me so long ago, I’m not afraid to admit it.

During the twilight of my life, I look out the window, see the dealers dressed in costumes parading down the sidewalk and lament: “Ah, what Halloween is this!” The sadness is not so much about the events and celebrations that I no longer participate in, but about the youth that I lost after I could no longer.