Secured with a thin rubber band that bit into the back of our heads, the masks were pre-formed plastic, a one-size-fits-all designation, which, we all recall, didn’t fit a single one of us. Two oversized eye holes should have been sufficient, but the opening landed in the wrong place and partially obstructed our views. We breathed in gasps, because the nose holes were tiny slits, and, as with the eye sockets, didn’t quite fit the children for which they were intended. Some masks had a small slit for the mouth; nothing large enough to allow the passage of even the thinnest candy bar, much less allow the words we spoke to escape.
We wore the masks on top of our heads until we reached a house where we would shout, “Trick or Treat!”
We couldn’t see the candy harvest as it fell into our pillowcases. We could only guess by weight whether we received a roll of Lifesavers, a Payday bar, Butterfinger, or one of those Neapolitan coconut bars which claimed to be strawberry, vanilla and chocolate flavor, but primarily tasted like sugar. Sometimes we received one small square of wrapped caramel. You could barely feel those.
In the westernmost part of North Carolina, kids whose mothers hit the jackpot shopping for the costumes at the Lays Five-and-Dime begged for candy either as Casper or Frankenstein. If you were “rich,” your mother let you skip school and together you took a day trip all the way to Asheville for a unique mask. Asheville, at the time, was a glorious melting pot of culture with minimal traffic.
Having secured the princess costume from Asheville, you were transformed into a yellow-haired beauty with a pink and blue crown, blue eyeshadow, matching blue earrings, perfect teeth and painted pink lips that were so bright you didn’t need a flashlight. The princess mask was devoid of a mouth opening, because a true princess needn’t speak. People fling candy at the feet of princesses.
I never went as a princess.
Growing up in Appalachia, there were four categories of trick-or-treaters. Those with mothers who made it to the Five-and-Dime before the 12 masks sold out, the lone Princess, those who wore handmade costumes, and those living in remote mountain areas who were either shackled by poverty or a religion that insisted All Hallows’ Eve was the night Lucifer himself walked the earth.
Bryson City did have her fair share of devil worshiping controversies complete with ritualistic sacrifices; but I see no need to shine a light on that kind of darkness.
Once, Mother found a Frankenstein mask for my brother at a yard sale. Worried about her baby boy suffocating, she took a knife to the plastic and opened the mouth hole, which is probably why my brother recalls cutting his tongue as he said, “Trick or Treat.” After that, he found an easier costume. He went as a football player. This was a ready-made costume considering my brother came out of the womb playing football. Besides, the helmet doubled as a candy catcher.
I, on the other hand, was a skeleton. Mother had visited Agnes Lewis who owned a little shop set up on her farmland off of Highway 28. Miss Agnes was a fabric fashionista who traveled, along with her husband, Sheriff Bill Lewis, to faraway lands such as Georgia, South Carolina or way “down state,” in Raleigh, to procure rolls of fabric with which the people of Appalachia would sew curtains, seat, and skeleton costumes. Mine was made from linen.
Let me tell you that wearing linen in the early 70s was tres chic. Now, before you get a visual image of mother spending hours hunched over a sewing machine, my little costume was a rectangle with a drawstring at the neckline. Mother laid me down atop the fabric and ever-so-lightly drew an outline of my body, then she opened the World Book Encyclopedia set—which is still in my bedroom to this day—studied intently, and sketched the bones onto the fabric.
I sure do wish I still had that costume.
In Bryson City, a collection of houses on School House Hill and a tiny outcropping of houses at the bottom of Hospital Hill were the closest things we had to subdivisions. Momma piled us in the back of her silver Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme (we were not allowed to call “shotgun” on Halloween) and drove us to pre-approved homes where she thought the treats we received would be safe.
In the 70s, word had trickled into Appalachia that our favorite sweets might be dangerous to children. Thanks to an Op-Ed piece of false fearmongering titled, “Those Treats May Be Tricks,” written by Judy Klemesrud, parents across the country took their kid’s candy haul to the hospital for a scan before consumption.
Suddenly, our favorite apples and popcorn balls disappeared. I remember visiting the homes of my favorite teachers in the whole wide world. Mrs. Crisp and Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Crisp had lost her daughter, Nanette, to a horrible car accident and quickly adopted every Swain County child as her own. She opened the door with a smile. Her signature cat eye glasses swayed from a beaded chain. Mrs. Crisp’s treats were displayed on a gold-plated platter arranged neatly so that your selection required a pinky-raise, else all the treats would jumble together and require repositioning.
“Now pick just two,” she would say, and waited for us to make our selection.
“Don’t go yet,” she called out as we turned to leave.
We’d watch as she stepped deeper into the foyer. We peered around the door at the luxurious shag carpeting just beyond the entrance. Mrs. Crisp returned with another tray of pencils with erasers and a selection of books that even the memory of today bring tears to my eyes.
Mrs. Brown offered your choice of popcorn balls, and thrice-dipped caramel apples, or candy apples made with red hots. She was also known to allow kids several pieces of candy and a selection from a tray of pencils and that lined paper with which we could practice our cursive.
Say what you will about Appalachia. Where I come from, literacy has always mattered to visionaries such as Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Crisp.
Decades later, while visiting Bryson City, I noticed a piece of heavy equipment devouring Mrs. Crisp’s house.
By the time I reached Momma’s house I was hysterical. “Mrs. Crisp’s house …” I managed to choke out. “They are killing it.”
She opened her arms.
Knowing that future generations will never experience the same Halloween magic troubles me. The moment Klemesrud’s fabricated claims hit the press, she altered the Trick or Treating experience across the US. In her words: “plump red apple that Junior gets from a kindly old woman down the block, may have a razor blade hidden inside.” And, “In recent years, pins, razor blades, slivers of glass and poison have appeared in the treats gathered by children across New York State.” Not a single word she penned was true, but the damage was done. In Appalachia, this kind of talk takes root. We weren’t allowed to eat a bite of candy until every single piece passed inspection. In fact, the terror Klemesrud penned holds true today as parents strictly monitor candy consumption.
By the time we returned home, our stomachs were growling in anticipation as we dumped our sweet loot into the living room. I don’t remember Dad ever participating in the driving, or costume making, but he sure participated in the inspection and procurement of all the candy we didn’t particular like.
We wanted to keep every piece for ourselves, but shared nonetheless. The following morning, pieces of candy escaped from our pockets and fell onto the floor of the school bus. Inside the classroom, we swapped again with our friends and gave pieces to those who didn’t have any to share. It wasn’t their fault they were too poor to afford costumes.
Alas, the sad day came when society deemed us too old to Trick or Treat. Having raised us to be fearless children who could do anything we set our minds to doing, we had Halloween parties. In the part of Appalachia where I grew up, setting your mind to egg a house, or decorating one with toilet paper, was akin to volunteering to cut the neighbor’s grass using scissors every week until Jesus raptured the church. That type of foolishness fell under the category of “Only people who haven’t had any raisin’ act like that; and I most certainly have raised you better!”
Upon Mother’s insistence, the party would be held at our house, as we had more space and parking was easier. Besides, she loved having a house full of kids. I don’t recall the food we ate, or the decorations that hung from the popcorn ceiling. I do remember my friend Leigh coming dressed as a clown. Oh, how I loved seeing her in that self-made costume.
Yvette arrived late, having rolled through a stop sign which resulted in being pulled over. She was dressed in her Nannie’s flowery button up house dress with a pillow around her midsection to complete the “pregnant woman” look. It didn’t matter that she explained she was on the way to a party.
“Ma’am step out of the car,” the deputy said.
She complied and right there in front of God and all of Bryson City, was required to pass a field sobriety test.
Sheriff Bill Lewis had a strict policy in his little town; there would be no drinking and driving.
As an adult, Halloween remains my favorite holiday. To see this experience through the eyes of my daughter and her friends remains a treasured memory, and yes, I still prefer a costume made from closet items instead of a store-bought ensemble. When my daughter was young, she dressed as Pippi Longstocking, complete with wires in the hair for the handlebar look, and mascara spots across the nose for freckles. We joined my best friend, Amy Belle, and her daughters, Katy and Hanna, for one loop around the neighborhood. Afterwards, we met up with my friend Loopy. She and I were dressed as witches. For the record, it’s perfectly acceptable for grown women to dress-up. Don’t judge.
As we strolled through the subdivision our children scampered from house to house. Loopy, who is head and shoulders taller than me, wore a pointed hat that, I swear, touched the stars. However, the green tights she chose were designed for someone with more of a petite “Renea frame.” With each forward step Loopy’s tights inched lower until she became so hobbled she could barely walk. Loopy would release a witchy cackle, step behind a car, and hitch up the tights. Transported into younger versions of ourselves, we contracted a serious case of the giggles. Our children, of course, distanced themselves from us immediately.
My daughter’s favorite memory is of when we trick or treated in the subdivision across from the school. It was an election year, and with all elections it seems, tensions ran high. By then, Charlie, our Labradoodle, was a part of the family. My daughter dressed as a “swell gal” from the 50s with a dark red poodle skirt. She led her dog who had a sign which read, Charlie for Pawsident.
Today, my daughter is a grown woman who loves spending time handing out candy. Perhaps one day we can trick or trick when she has children of her own. I’ll be the one dressed as an old woman.