At least say “trick or treat”

I suppose none of us ever really grows up to be what we thought we’d be when we were kids. Sometimes the best we can hope for is avoiding becoming the kinds of adults we hated when we were younger. Thus I was considerably upset when – after some recent self-examination – I discovered that I’d turned into one of the most loathsome creatures ever to haunt childhood’s otherwise happy hours.

I’ve turned into a Halloween Grinch.

When I was a kid I absolutely loved Oct. 31. Next to Christmas – of course nothing could compete with Christmas – Halloween was the best holiday ever. To this day I remember my costume from just about every year. The werewolf get-up complete with my first full-head latex mask and furry wolf paws my mom sewed for me. The invisible man costume with sunglasses – not the smartest idea for crossing streets after dark – and bandages that swiftly unraveled, leaving me more “burn victim” than “invisible.” Even the store-bought jobs had their own measure of magic.

When I got too old to trick-or-treat, I switched to distribution duty. Throughout high school, college, grad school, law school, and even the real world, I’ve tried where possible to station myself next to the door from dusk to 9:00 or so with a plastic jack-o-lantern full of candy. And that’s good candy, by the way. Not those vaguely-peanut-butter-flavored things that come in the orange and black wax paper wrappers and are universally considered nasty by everyone everywhere except maybe the folks who hand them out.

Indeed, one of the things I was really looking forward to as a new homeowner three years ago was really getting into the Halloween thing. One of my teachers in junior high used to convert his front yard into a mini-graveyard. He’d dress like Frankenstein and shamble after us down the walk once his wife had dished out the treats. I’m too short to pull of the Frankenstein thing, but the rest of it would have been really cool.

Early in October of our first year in our current neighborhood, we got our first hints that things might not work out exactly as planned. The neighborhood association’s newsletter said that kids in our area would trick-or-treat a day early in order to avoid some vague, undefined problem with the traditional day. It made me wonder what exactly I’d moved into.

Then I found out. I was out of the house until late that first All Hallow’s Eve, but I arrived home to a scene of utter pandemonium. Honestly, I hadn’t seen that large a crowd of cars parked on the streets and people milling around since I lived less than a block from the KU football stadium. Actually, except for the Nebraska games, even the football fans weren’t this numerous.

To be honest, the crowds and the chaos didn’t especially bother me. I admit that the tradition I recall from childhood was no more than three blocks – give or take – in any direction from home. That’s a far cry from kids coming in from so far away that they have to be driven into the neighborhood. But I’m willing to adapt to new customs. And it’s not like I can’t afford a few extra bags of treats for kids that pile out of cars with out-of-state tags.

However, I’m less flexible about a few other Halloween traditions. So this year I’m asking parents to help their children help me un-Grinch myself. If you have kids who are planning to trick-or-treat this year, please pass three things on to them for me.

First, 13 is the limit. The moment you can officially be called a teenager, trick-or-treating is officially over for you. Even if your birthday is Oct. 31, you’re still out. Sorry, but that’s the rule. Maybe it isn’t fair, but if you’re 13 then you’re old enough to understand that life isn’t always fair. You’re also old enough to leave the candy for the kids.

Second, you must wear a costume. Michael Vick is scary. You in a Michael Vick jersey ain’t. I’m not asking for much. Don a ratty old coat and beat-up hat and go as a hobo. Throw on overalls, blow a buck on a straw hat, and go as a hillbilly. Put your clothes on backwards and go as Mr. Crazy Backwards Man. All I’m looking for here is some effort.

Even if you can’t manage either of the first two simple requests, please at least try to master this third one. Spend 20 minutes or so practicing it in the bathroom mirror if you have to. Two simple phrases. The first is “trick or treat.” The second is “thank you.” No magic words, no magic.

And if Halloween isn’t about magic, what is it about?

Most of this entry was originally printed as a column in the Kansas City Kansan.