This past week, a number of friends have asked me if I've put up my "Halloween Haunt." No, I haven't. I normally wait for the second week of October although many store-purchased electrified plastic pumpkins and ghosts already stand activated at nighttime in many Waupun front yards.
I don't like store bought Halloween props and thus I've fabricated nearly 90 per cent of the Smullen haunt, including Elvira, the animatronic floating ghost in our bay window and all the gravestones and monsters in the temporary cemetery on the east side of our home. Thanks to my dear friend, Neva Rubel, she talked her husband, Dave, into constructing the mechanism that revolves the nasty looking clown's head. I believe the motor he used came from a rotisserie of an outdoor grill that had gone belly up.
I purchased all the other Dayton motors for my props from a local business, the W&W Electric Motor Company. All the motors turn at six revolutions per minute.
This week, Lori asked me to print up the number of large-sized candy bars we'll need to buy at Sam's Club. The total is the same as last year, eight hundred eighty-eight chocolate bars exactly. They include three hundred twenty four Nestles Crunch bars; three hundred eighty four Snickers; and one hundred eighty Butter Fingers. And if the weather is not bad, we'll run out of candy before trick or treating is finished. Why? Because that's what happened in the past. I have no doubts that will occur once again.
In1944, when I was a five-year-old kid living in Wisconsin Rapids, my mother finally relented I could go trick-or-treating with my older brother, Bill. Back then, parents never accompanied kids on that most ghostly of nights. Haunting was reserved for children exclusively. Some parents, including mine, assigned older brothers and sisters the chore of making certain their younger siblings tagged along and got their bags filled with goodies local folks offered.
When I arrived home on All Hallows' Eve afternoon after attending my kindergarten class at Irving grade school, I stuffed a bandana with toilet paper and tied the bulging result to the end of a stick that I cut from a limb in the Old Grove, a former Indian burial ground, we were told. The bandana made a perfect hobo's bindle, in which a tramp carried his prized possessions, which wasn't much.
Next, I looked for the oldest, ripped clothing I could find in various closets. Then, I scurried downstairs to our basement's coal bin that had a huge pile of briquettes delivered only weeks previously by the blackened coal man in his dirtied, stinky truck.
I rubbed briquettes on my face and hurried upstairs to look in the bathroom mirror. Yes, I thought, I looked perfect since I was going dressed as a tramp, which wasn’t too original. Probably a third of the kids outfitted themselves as tramps because masks cost money and "Money," as my mother would remind her offspring time and again, "doesn't grow on trees."
Sitting before the kitchen table with my paper shopping bag on the table top, I was ready at 4 p.m. when my older brothers arrived home. "You're a little early," reminded my oldest brother, James. "You can't go trick or treating until six O'clock."
Back in those days, we had to refer to my eldest brother as James, never Jim. Jim was reserved for Dad. And of course, only Mother could refer to Dad as Jim.
"Besides," reminded Mother, "you haven't had supper yet." Dinner was served at noon. Supper was our evening meal.
"Look at him," said brother Bill, pointing at me. "He looks stupid. Do I have to take him with me?"
"Yes, you do," said Mother, her arms akimbo, stiffening to her full height of four feet ten inches. "Next year, Georgie can go with his friends, but not this year. You either take him with you or you won't be going."
"My name's George," I reminded Mother. I was a young man now, not a boy.
"It's whatever name I call you," the boss lady reminded me rather stiffly.
That first night was heaven on earth. My brother and one of his friends took me all over town, even across the river. I didn't tire of watching apples or oranges or homemade popcorn balls dropping into my outstretched bag along with Halloween-sized miniature candy bars, and lo and behold, some large-sized candy bars. Some folks even gave us pennies. "Wow, I'll be rich," I cried out. Bill and his friend simply shook their heads. "I had to take him along," said Bill about the umpteenth time that night.
A few homeowners asked us indoors and we had to sing a song for them before they gave us our treats. So, sing we did. Singing was time spent away from trick or treating at other houses. When warned by other trick-or-treaters, we avoided "singing homes" as if they might cause us to break out into warts.
Finally, when we covered the entire town and arrived home, we dumped all of our goodies on the parlor rug, but first Mother rubbed my face with cold cream and wiped away the gunk as best as she could. Then, we started trading candies. Naturally, older brothers took advantage of younger brothers, or that's the way younger brothers saw things in those days.
Three Halloweens later, I was assigned the job of taking my sister, Annette, on her first trick or treat night. "She looks stupid, dressed as a pink bunny. Do I have to take her?" Receiving the same answer as my older brother did three years when he asked that same question, I dragged Annette along. We had a good time.
I learned much on subsequent Halloween nights about human nature. I noted that working stiffs, many of them employees at Consolidated paper mill, gave to us kids whatever they could, and were happy to do so.
The homes that remained darkened not only appeared unwelcomed but in fact we kids felt the owners were downright mean spirited. Those unlighted homes were owned by many "professionals" in town who were enjoying themselves at the country club's Halloween dance. They obviously had more money than the average homeowner, and let everyone know that in no uncertain terms. A few kids brought along with them either a bar of soap or paraffin and artistically, or not, drew all kinds of things on those darkened windows. Truth is, some of those homeowners weren't even in town. Point to ponder: Don't be away from home on Halloween.
No matter, we'd always head to Belle Isle, the place where the millionaire Mead and Witter families lived. The Meads owned Consolidated Papers. Older kids would fib and tell everyone the Meads were giving out humongous candy bars. Nevertheless, each year a Mead employee waited at the end of the private bridge that led to their Manor and turned us away.
To their employees who willingly gave us treats, it did not matter if the kid was rich or poor, intelligent or stupid, nice or not so nice. One's station in life was never taken into account. All a kid had to be was a kid. No questions asked. I appreciated that democratic concept and so one year before I became too old to go out on Halloween, I made an out loud commitment to myself and other kids that when I grew up I'd have my house lights on and I'd hand out full-sized candy bars to each and every kid. All they had to be were kids. No questions asked.
I have kept my promise.
I don't like store bought Halloween props and thus I've fabricated nearly 90 per cent of the Smullen haunt, including Elvira, the animatronic floating ghost in our bay window and all the gravestones and monsters in the temporary cemetery on the east side of our home. Thanks to my dear friend, Neva Rubel, she talked her husband, Dave, into constructing the mechanism that revolves the nasty looking clown's head. I believe the motor he used came from a rotisserie of an outdoor grill that had gone belly up.
I purchased all the other Dayton motors for my props from a local business, the W&W Electric Motor Company. All the motors turn at six revolutions per minute.
This week, Lori asked me to print up the number of large-sized candy bars we'll need to buy at Sam's Club. The total is the same as last year, eight hundred eighty-eight chocolate bars exactly. They include three hundred twenty four Nestles Crunch bars; three hundred eighty four Snickers; and one hundred eighty Butter Fingers. And if the weather is not bad, we'll run out of candy before trick or treating is finished. Why? Because that's what happened in the past. I have no doubts that will occur once again.
In1944, when I was a five-year-old kid living in Wisconsin Rapids, my mother finally relented I could go trick-or-treating with my older brother, Bill. Back then, parents never accompanied kids on that most ghostly of nights. Haunting was reserved for children exclusively. Some parents, including mine, assigned older brothers and sisters the chore of making certain their younger siblings tagged along and got their bags filled with goodies local folks offered.
When I arrived home on All Hallows' Eve afternoon after attending my kindergarten class at Irving grade school, I stuffed a bandana with toilet paper and tied the bulging result to the end of a stick that I cut from a limb in the Old Grove, a former Indian burial ground, we were told. The bandana made a perfect hobo's bindle, in which a tramp carried his prized possessions, which wasn't much.
Next, I looked for the oldest, ripped clothing I could find in various closets. Then, I scurried downstairs to our basement's coal bin that had a huge pile of briquettes delivered only weeks previously by the blackened coal man in his dirtied, stinky truck.
I rubbed briquettes on my face and hurried upstairs to look in the bathroom mirror. Yes, I thought, I looked perfect since I was going dressed as a tramp, which wasn’t too original. Probably a third of the kids outfitted themselves as tramps because masks cost money and "Money," as my mother would remind her offspring time and again, "doesn't grow on trees."
Sitting before the kitchen table with my paper shopping bag on the table top, I was ready at 4 p.m. when my older brothers arrived home. "You're a little early," reminded my oldest brother, James. "You can't go trick or treating until six O'clock."
Back in those days, we had to refer to my eldest brother as James, never Jim. Jim was reserved for Dad. And of course, only Mother could refer to Dad as Jim.
"Besides," reminded Mother, "you haven't had supper yet." Dinner was served at noon. Supper was our evening meal.
"Look at him," said brother Bill, pointing at me. "He looks stupid. Do I have to take him with me?"
"Yes, you do," said Mother, her arms akimbo, stiffening to her full height of four feet ten inches. "Next year, Georgie can go with his friends, but not this year. You either take him with you or you won't be going."
"My name's George," I reminded Mother. I was a young man now, not a boy.
"It's whatever name I call you," the boss lady reminded me rather stiffly.
That first night was heaven on earth. My brother and one of his friends took me all over town, even across the river. I didn't tire of watching apples or oranges or homemade popcorn balls dropping into my outstretched bag along with Halloween-sized miniature candy bars, and lo and behold, some large-sized candy bars. Some folks even gave us pennies. "Wow, I'll be rich," I cried out. Bill and his friend simply shook their heads. "I had to take him along," said Bill about the umpteenth time that night.
A few homeowners asked us indoors and we had to sing a song for them before they gave us our treats. So, sing we did. Singing was time spent away from trick or treating at other houses. When warned by other trick-or-treaters, we avoided "singing homes" as if they might cause us to break out into warts.
Finally, when we covered the entire town and arrived home, we dumped all of our goodies on the parlor rug, but first Mother rubbed my face with cold cream and wiped away the gunk as best as she could. Then, we started trading candies. Naturally, older brothers took advantage of younger brothers, or that's the way younger brothers saw things in those days.
Three Halloweens later, I was assigned the job of taking my sister, Annette, on her first trick or treat night. "She looks stupid, dressed as a pink bunny. Do I have to take her?" Receiving the same answer as my older brother did three years when he asked that same question, I dragged Annette along. We had a good time.
I learned much on subsequent Halloween nights about human nature. I noted that working stiffs, many of them employees at Consolidated paper mill, gave to us kids whatever they could, and were happy to do so.
The homes that remained darkened not only appeared unwelcomed but in fact we kids felt the owners were downright mean spirited. Those unlighted homes were owned by many "professionals" in town who were enjoying themselves at the country club's Halloween dance. They obviously had more money than the average homeowner, and let everyone know that in no uncertain terms. A few kids brought along with them either a bar of soap or paraffin and artistically, or not, drew all kinds of things on those darkened windows. Truth is, some of those homeowners weren't even in town. Point to ponder: Don't be away from home on Halloween.
No matter, we'd always head to Belle Isle, the place where the millionaire Mead and Witter families lived. The Meads owned Consolidated Papers. Older kids would fib and tell everyone the Meads were giving out humongous candy bars. Nevertheless, each year a Mead employee waited at the end of the private bridge that led to their Manor and turned us away.
To their employees who willingly gave us treats, it did not matter if the kid was rich or poor, intelligent or stupid, nice or not so nice. One's station in life was never taken into account. All a kid had to be was a kid. No questions asked. I appreciated that democratic concept and so one year before I became too old to go out on Halloween, I made an out loud commitment to myself and other kids that when I grew up I'd have my house lights on and I'd hand out full-sized candy bars to each and every kid. All they had to be were kids. No questions asked.
I have kept my promise.
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