Contributing writer
We had relatives here from California this weekend when Halloween fell so conveniently on a Saturday night. The children wanted to dress up in costumes and go trick-or-treating. I was thrilled — hadn’t done that in ages.
While Ramona offers nostalgia — chickens for gathering eggs, cats for playing — we are a pretty sparse community for serious trick-or-treating.
Our neighbor David, Jess, and I anchored the north part of town. Betty and Connie held down Second Street. We do good to have a dozen houses welcoming the little beggars.
“We want to go to Herington,” our California cousins said with a greedy gleam in their eyes. “What kind of costumes do you have?”
Jess and I went hunting and came back with boxes of possibilities and we all decided to dress up.
“Let’s all go out to eat, before we go to trick-or-treat,” Lisa said.
It had a certain poetic ring and I was thrilled.
“Pat’s so glad you are here,” my sister commented. “She’d be bored to death if she couldn’t dress up on Halloween and you’ve just made her day!”
She was right. Part of the dressing up is watching ordinary people transform into something slightly strange. Jerod was a bag of bones with blood running down his face. Lisa and Jess were witches. Hannah was an exotic princess from India. For a few minutes, she had contemplated being a Kansas farmer, which she seemed to favor, until she held up the overalls and they were Tim’s “Alabama Cut” version with the tummy cut out.
“I’ll be a princess,” she said wisely.
“I think I’ll be a sailor,” I said, “and for extra effect, I’ll paint my face like a flag.”
I was very wise choosing this costume — I wanted to be warm. I had a sailor’s peacoat hanging in the closet and I wanted to be able to eat my supper with my costume intact — no masks for me, I would paint my face.
We were quite a sight as we headed into the restaurant. I must admit to pangs of guilt for leaving David alone at the end of D Street in Ramona. But he was doing well with a blowup Dracula and scary music emanating from the front porch as we drove out of town —and this was broad daylight.
When it finally got dark, we walked the streets of Herington with our cousin’s kids. It was a first for me — these kids, this town. At first, I was shocked at how few porch lights were turned on — the welcoming sign.
“Wow, people don’t get into this as much as they used to? This is about one house in four or five.”
We were going to get our exercise.
The big delight in our trick-or-treating foray was the creativity of the people who welcomed spooks of all ages. One porch on West Walnut had what looked like stuffed scarecrows on the front porch — only it was the occupants of the house.
Another house was decorated with spooky things buried in the yard, featuring the man of the house in a frightening costume who handed out candy while his wife, in a wheelchair, held the bowl. They had eerie lights in the living room and a very scary movie playing on the television inside. I took his picture.
“It won’t work,” he growled scarily.
There was the little old lady with pumpkins lighting up her dining room table and an array of candy bars lay out on a TV tray so the kids could choose. She was sweet not scary, and was obviously enjoying these visitors at her door.
One of the funeral homes in town had treats.
“Well, now,” I said to my sister. “Never seen that before.”
The kids loved Broadway, more houses per square inch than in Ramona, that’s for sure.
After the ritual of dressing up and trick-or-treating, there’s the ritual of assessing the loot. You dump all your candy from your bucket and arrange it according to flavor, trading varieties you don’t like for the ones you just love if your brother or sister is willing to give up.
And that was it — another day in the country.
I came home, washed off the face paint, turned on the porch light — it was only 8 p.m. and just maybe there still would be some tricksters out hunting for treats. We made caramel-covered apples and popped corn — that used to be a ritual in the olden days — and watched television.
The next morning when I got up, I saw that someone had strung toilet paper through my trees.
“Yep, the tricksters were here,” I grinned, imagining their clandestine delight.