Halloween, back in the day

My mother was big on Halloween. And by that, I don't mean she spent that hallowed day baking ghoulish cupcakes with teensy candy pumpkins, or admiring the costumes she'd handcrafted for her four kids.

Mom was in it for the costumes and the candy, all right: her costumes — and our candy.

On a particularly memorable Halloween, she arrived to pick me up from a Girl Scout bonfire-fueled jamboree. Jumping out of her '69 VW Bug, she made her way through the crisp autumn leaves to find me. I can't recall how — or even if — I was costumed that night, but I'll never forget how I felt when I lifted my bobbing head from a vat full of tooth-bitten apples:

Wiping cold water from my eyes, I focused on a 5-foot-2-inch figure dressed like Bozo the Clown — complete with white-face makeup, Joker lips and a spiky Halloween-orange bathing cap that looked suspiciously like the one my mother wore that summer at our local swim club. "Surprise!" yelled Bozo. Having earned my Girl Scout Mortification Badge then and there, I slunk to the car and promptly burst into tears.

Ah, golden memories of Halloween! I've got a million of them. And not a single one involves "snack-size" candy bars, "Harvest Festivals" or trick-or-treating in a Costco-bought costume under the fluorescent lights of an indoor shopping mall.

Celebrating Halloween as a kid in Philadelphia — where decorating for the holiday remains a citywide imperative — I had the great fortune of living in a 500-tract subdivision where kids ruled, candy was king and our rallying cry was, "Trick or treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!"

Back then, we actually did get something good to eat. Trudging up and down the streets and cul-de-sacs with pillow cases and UNICEF boxes in hand — devoid of flashlights, reflective gear or, God forbid, our parents — we'd score big on Hershey Bars, Goldenberg's Peanut Chews and the occasional caramel-coated apple that we'd scarf on the spot, never considering the need to X-ray that special treat for razor blades.

And when, our sacks full-up to nearly bursting, we'd arrive home to empty our loot onto the dining-room table and trade candy ("I'll give you two Butterfingers for a Necco Wafer"), justice had to be served. Her name was Mom. We paid her in dividends of Nestle Crunch and 3 Muskeeters, which she'd stash in a cookie tin kept out of our reach — or so she thought — atop our "side-by-side refrigerator-freezer."

These days I spend All Hallow's Eve in the company of a Sweet-Tarted-up grade-schooler, whose dad — bless him — lovingly makes the boy's costumes. Tonight, in the company of a woman whose "costume" involves an Eddie Bauer jacket and mom-jeans, my son will traipse through downtown Edmonds in a small-town scene straight out of "Hocus Pocus."

Eschewing last year's costume (Count Dracula) for this year's (an M&M), we'll join 5,000 merrymakers who hit-up the local merchants, amassing umpteen miniversions of the same six candies (enough already with the Tootsie Rolls!). We'll stop at the movie theater for a bag of popcorn and Just Say No to the line that snakes down the block from the local bake shop, where fresh doughnuts are free for those who can stand the wait.

Meanwhile, my husband will be sitting home with a cocktail and the dogs, waiting for the next wave of local urchins who know where to knock for full-size Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Starburst candies and (if they're very lucky and I haven't been entirely too busy) a homemade caramel apple — hold the shaving implements.

If they're smart, they'll go across the street to our neighbors, the Smiths, who one-up us by a mile with their movie- theater-size candy boxes. And they'll stay away from "Spooky Dave's" — the neighborhood electrician who's known to scare the yell out of the little ones when they ring his doorbell and he jumps out from behind a porch pillar dressed as a ghoul.

When we return home from our town's communal festivities, cold, tired and hungry for the pizza that awaits us, we make certain to first pay a visit to the Smiths, and Spooky Dave, and the many neighbors who beg us to take an extra helping of candy — lest they're forced to eat the leftovers themselves.

Back in the day — my day — there weren't any "leftovers": only lights turned out, doorbells unanswered and, occasionally, nickels and dimes doled out in lieu of sweets. But these days, with kids heading out to private parties, shopping malls and other clean, well-lighted places on Halloween, neighborhoods don't see the kind of action they saw when I was growing up.

It's enough to make my mother melancholic.

Mom recently moved from South Jersey to a fancy-pants retirement community in sunny South Carolina where, in the spirit of the season, I sent her a box of Nestle Crunch. I did it just so I can imagine her sitting poolside, soaking up some sun, sharing her Halloween candy with her gal-pals and clowning around in that spiky orange bathing cap. It's a vision that still brings tears to my eyes.

Nancy Leson: Nancy Leson: 206-464-8838 or nleson@seattletimes.com.

More columns available at seattletimes.com/nancyleson.