Halloween in the 1950s

 With Halloween around the corner, I am taken back to the 1950s and trick or treating with my best friend, Patsy. We lived near a very tiny town, Houston, Delaware (that’s Howston not Youston). I attended a Methodist church there, and that is where I met Patsy. Unlike me, Patsy had lots of brothers and sisters and was out-going and friendly to everyone. I was forever looking for someone to play with, but my shy self did not always succeed. Patsy was easy.

Patsy is pretty ornery-looking, huh? She’s got that impish grin.

Do you remember UNICEF? And churches collecting for that organization during Halloween? Our Methodist church always had a big party for the trick or treaters and encouraged all of us to add this “treat” of donation for a worthy cause to our Halloween shenanigans. To me it made Halloween, already such a fun time, seem important and worthwhile.

A large part of Halloween is all about the planning. After all, you get to be someone else for a few hours, an acting part for which a passion is necessary. Like everyone, we wanted to do something different and spent hours writing down ideas. We shared an interest in books and wrote down our favorite characters, but all of them seemed trite and done before. Peter Pan, Cinderella and Snow White held no appeal for us. The three Stooges or the seven dwarfs were a maybe for a while. But we needed a crowd for them, and we were more of a two-man team.

Then, Patsy had a brilliant idea. “What about that guy we saw at the Harrington Fair? You remember, the organ-grinder and the monkey. I’ll be the monkey, and you can play my brother’s toy accordion. We’ll be hilarious and get tons of candy!” How could I argue with that?

We set about pulling together costumes. Old clothes from one of Patsy’s brothers were perfect for me. A bright red shirt that matched the little accordion made me stand out in a crowd and with a blue tie normally saved for church, I looked very professional, especially when I added an old hat and stuck a found bird’s feather in it. Another friend volunteered his dog’s leash and collar for the “monkey.”

Patsy, who never gave up easily, found an actual gorilla costume, not a monkey but close enough. After “borrowing” a tin cup from her mom’s pantry, we were in business. Patsy started practicing her gorilla/monkey sounds immediately, and I got pretty adept on that little accordion. With our tin cup for UNICEF and our decorated paper bags for candy, we were ready for the big night.

The only thing we hadn’t planned on was how quickly it got dark, but with that accordion, you could hear us coming from quite a distance, and 

when we appeared in front of an open door with the porch light on, mouths did form that 0 of surprise. I pushed and pulled on that accordion and Patsy grunted and squeaked and handed out peanuts in the shell like a good little monkey. We had the best time ever and did get loads of treats for us and the church. It was the very best Halloween I ever remember having. Below are Patsy and Nancy, my best friends all through elementary school. Wish I had pictures of the organ-grinder and the monkey, but sadly, photos were not high on our list of priorities.

Another Corner

Standing in the corner was a frequent punishment in grade school when I grew up in the 1950s. Hardly anyone escaped it. This particular day it all started on our return trip from the library when I was in the fourth grade. Mrs. Quillen, my homeroom teacher, never smiled, and she wouldn’t have known what to do with a joke if it had crawled up and sat down beside her. She dressed fashionably, yet conservative would have described her tailored clothes. Her hair, though short, fell in soft waves and framed her black cat eye glasses. She asserted her authority in the classroom and expected everyone to follow her rules without exception. Our class library excursions happened once or twice a month. Everyone lined up single file to make our way to my favorite place in the entire school. Once there, we were turned loose with admonishments of “no talking” and “conduct yourselves like ladies and gentlemen”. Of course, I never had a problem with that. I searched for books with such intensity that the passage of one hour seemed like a few minutes. When we were called to line up again to check out our books and return to our classroom, I invariably ducked in near the end of the line. Sometimes I needed a special invitation, if you know what I mean. Now, I don’t remember liking boys in the fourth grade. At the very least, I didn’t pay much attention to them, but apparently, I had a secret admirer, an admirer who wanted to make me aware of his presence in that snaking line back to our classroom. Harold Cain (will I ever forget that name) was behind me, and as we walked back through the long hallway, he was intent on getting my attention. At first, he quietly kept saying my name, but I gritted my teeth, counted to ten, and did not encourage him by turning around. I ignored him because I knew I would be in trouble with Mrs. Quillen if I so much as uttered one syllable. With no results from name whispering, he resorted to using the only thing he had at hand. He kept tapping me on the back of my head with his library book. Tap…tap…every few steps. At first I managed to remain calm and continue walking, thinking he would soon give up and quit, but he had the persistence of J. K. Rowling. I turned and gave him my most menacing stare. I can see him now, tall and skinny with spiked short blond hair and sporting a smug grin. High water pants, a less than white t-shirt, and a pair of grimy tennis shoes highlighted his wardrobe. He was quiet, saying nothing, but as soon as I turned around toward the front, he began again, tapping me on the back of my head with every few steps I took until I could no longer stand it. I twisted around, swung my outstretched hand that grasped my library book, and I let him have it smack on the side of his face. Wow that felt good…for a few seconds. I heard the thunderous shout, “What’s going on back there?” Mrs. Quillen marched back in plenty of time to see a huge bright red lump appearing on Harold’s cheek. Harold, who now appeared shy, meek, quiet, and a little surprised, became the perfect victim as I sputtered angry abusive epithets to anyone who would listen. After my outburst, Mrs. Quillen neither wanted nor allowed any explanation from me. I was to stop shouting this instant. She clearly saw the injured party and reached her own conclusion. She grabbed my arm, marched me back to the classroom amid snickers and positioned me in the far corner by the blackboard “for as long as it takes to calm down and apologize to Harold”. I don’t remember how long it took me. It seemed like hours, maybe days, but finally, I said “sorry”, grudgingly, and Mrs. Quillen warned me never to strike another person in her class ever again, or I would be more than sorry. Harold never said anymore about it. I think he was scared of me after that, and of course, over sixty years later, being a Scorpio, I still remember his name.