Nancy Horton's Blog: The Trouble with Trick or Treat

My family has a dubious history with Halloween. Our dad’s family came to Alameda in the 1920s and settled on Centennial, a little street on the edge of the Gold Coast.

He used to tell us that in his neighborhood, Halloween was primarily a night of mischief for boys who would soap windows and try to set cats on fire. Later on, when Dust Bowl immigrants came to town, their kids began going door to door, trick or treating. “Give me a treat or I’ll trick you.”

Before we were born, our Mom gave out candy to the few kids who came at Halloween, and she enjoyed their costumes. But, as some people think that Mother’s Day was invented by the Hallmark Company, she felt that the trick or treat tradition was a blatant sales escalation device from the candy companies. And the “trick” component never sat well with her, either.

One Halloween night in the early 50s, my mother was home alone experiencing labor pains. A few kids had come trick or treating and her candy bowl was about empty. She was beginning to fret – her contractions were coming faster, Dad was on his 24-hour shift at the firehouse, and she wasn’t sure if she should try to go to sleep or think about getting to the hospital.

The doorbell rang. Mom opened it to find three slightly inebriated Alameda firemen – all family friends – holding shot glasses aloft, “TRICK OR DRINK,” they slurred.

Mom blasted back “I don’t know about you boys, but I’M HAVING A BABY!”

The firemen sobered up and – this being well before the days of designated drivers – chose the most clear-headed one to drive Mom to the hospital. My sister, Ellen, was born the following afternoon.

Growing up, our classmates at Woodstock and Paden schools started talking about Halloween the minute the calendar turned over to October. They discussed their costumes, planned what neighborhoods they were going to canvas and described in detail the huge cache of candy they would sort, categorize, trade, hoard and get sick on.

Ellen and I were daunted by the idea of going door to door, but the prospect of unlimited candy was a very strong motivator. When we asked our mom about trick or treating, she said “Wouldn’t you rather we just bought you some candy?”

Mom relented when she learned that children could trick or treat with a donation box for UNICEF. Mom made sure we understood what the coin collection was for.

“What do you say when someone asks what UNICEF means?”

“United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund.”

We planned our route: a short circle around our own block – the 100 block of Santa Clara – to the houses of friends who had their porch lights on. At the end of the evening we each had a modest bag of assorted candy – Tootsie Rolls, root beer barrels and the coveted miniature Mr. Goodbars and Nestle Krunch bars – along with a respectable donation to UNICEF. Trick or treating for UNICEF was a nice compromise between Mom’s strong ideals and our desire to be like our friends and get candy.

As the years went on, we ventured away from our own block. One memorable Halloween, when Ellen and I rang a doorbell and said “trick-or-treat for UNICEF,"  the homeowner said “UNICEF? You’re collecting for UNICEF? What kind of pinko nonsense is this? Here’s your donation, you little Commies.” He threw a handful of candy onto his front walk and slammed the door.

I was insulted, embarrassed and completely confused. I was also feeling enough self-respect to be determined to leave that man’s candy on his front walk where he had thrown it, no matter what kind it was. They were Junior Mints. I hated Junior Mints, but Ellen loved them. We left the candy behind and agreed that we were finished with trick or treat.

The next Halloween, still stinging from the “Commie” incident, we didn’t even broach trick or treating. But by that time, Mom had eased up a bit and had another idea.

“Let’s have a punch booth,” Mom said. She got us to hang a few bats and cobwebs around the front porch and we made two bowls of punch, one red and one green (it was probably just Kool-Aid). We set them up on the ironing board across the front door. When the first costumed trick or treaters came, Mom was into it. Wearing a witch costume, she cackled maliciously as she ladled punch into tiny paper cups. Ellen and I asked the accompanying parents for a donation to UNICEF.

The punch booth had been open for twenty minutes or so, when a trio of pimply-faced teenagers stepped up. They were not wearing costumes and I could tell from their attitudes that they were up to no good.

One of the teens sidled up to the ironing board – too close for everyone’s comfort – made a feigned grab for the UNICEF collection box, lingered another moment, then told his buddies “They got nothing here. Let’s split.”

Suspicious, Mom dipped her ladle searchingly in the red punch and – sure enough – the teenager had slipped in a bar of pink Sweetheart soap.

“We’ve been tricked!” Mom bellowed. “That’s it! We give up on Halloween!” With that, she tossed the contents of the two punchbowls onto the front lawn, folded the ironing board with a snap and turned off the porch light. 

From then on we conveniently evaded the whole thing by going out to dinner to celebrate my sister’s birthday. Years later, when Mom was alone, she began to welcome trick or treaters again. “I like to see the little kids in their costumes,” she said. “And I have a handful of change ready in case one of them is collecting for UNICEF.”

Nancy Johnsen Horton lives in Alameda and wishes her sister, Ellen Johnsen, a happy birthday.