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Do you keep track of how many kids ring your doorbell on Halloween? Janell and I have for years. The tally ranges from a low of six during the COVID pandemic to a high of 35.
We live a few blocks from the University of Oregon, so our numbers may be lower than average. When I was growing up in Salem, more than 100 kids would ring our doorbell on Halloween.
Janell and I divide trick-or-treaters into two categories: real children and wannabe children. First to arrive are neighborhood kids accompanied by parents we know. Next come roving bands of shy middle-schoolers, who still count as kids. Then we get the wannabes — UO students guiltily looking for candy on their way to a party.
Janell added a twist last year: potatoes. In addition to the usual basket of Reese’s peanut butter cups and KitKats, she offered a basket of Yukon gold spuds. The deal was, if they chose candy, they’d get two pieces of candy. If they chose a potato, they’d get just one piece of candy.
First to ring the doorbell were the kids from next door — middle schoolers in such terrifying rotten-faced zombie masks that our cats fled to the basement with big tails. No potatoes for them.
The next group consisted of younger skeletons. They started reaching for the candy, too. Then an obviously influential girl-corpse said, “I really like hash browns.” In the dim porch light it was hard to see what happened next, but we later ascertained that two potatoes were missing.
The University District is a tough neighborhood for small trick-or-treaters. When our kids were 2 and 4, the first doorbell we rang was answered by a giant growling gorilla. Little Ian panicked. We lured him back with candy and the promise that the next house wouldn’t have a guy dressed up in a gorilla suit. But it did. How do you repair that kind of trauma?
I have a harpsichord — the spookiest Halloween instrument of all. One year I played J.S. Bach fugues when kids came to the door of our gothic haunted house. One and all, they shrugged.
“That’s not scary,” they said. Now we turn on KLCC for more reliable mood music. How many versions of “Monster Mash” can they play in one evening?
After 8 p.m., when the doorbell dies, I go outside to take a look. The street in our neighborhood is alive with sexy witches and macho monsters. Candy is no longer the lure for these grown-up kids.
This is my cue that the goodies in our basket are up for grabs. An actual scientific study has shown that most parents check their kids’ haul for safety. Strangely, Reese’s peanut butter cups seem to be considered the most dangerous loot and are carefully removed.
Halloween is an all-day business in Eugene, even if it falls on a workday. At the appointment for my annual medical checkup one year, all the receptionists and nurses were dressed as witches. The doctor himself admitted that he had missed the memo. He was dressed as an ’80s disco star.
After the checkup Janell and I treated ourselves to a lavish breakfast at Brail’s. I hadn’t eaten anything because of the blood test, so I was hungry. All the wait staff in the restaurant were dressed with a “Wizard of Oz” theme. When I told our scarecrow waiter that he’d forgotten my hash browns, he said, “Sorry. I don’t have a brain.”
In Safeway a Wolfman showed us where to find the cat food.
Back to our trick-or-treat tally. When I told my son in Seattle about the low point in 2020, when just six kids dared to ring our doorbell, he smiled. Seattleites didn’t let social isolation stop the candy train. Instead each house had a 10-foot tube that extended from the porch to the sidewalk. When kids came by they shouted “Trick or Treat!” Then they held their bags under the spout, and presto! Candy came pouring down the tube.
The magic of Halloween is unstoppable.
