Treating the Tricksters

by Beth Alexander Walsh

  The first year my brother got to go trick or treating without me, it was 1969 and I was in kindergarten. Barely able to see out of the mask of my Raggedy Ann costume, I ran to keep up with all the hobos and ghosts crisscrossing my street, while trying to carry a plastic bucket. Our mother watched us from the front porch. At the end of the street my brother pushed me around and told me to go home as he joined the pack of kids, giddy with the freedom of roaming the streets without a parent in sight. I was devastated, especially when I saw how much candy he brought home in his pillowcase.

 In second grade it was my turn to join the pack. I listened for weeks about route strategies and other useful tips on the school bus. My mother helped me fashion an Indian costume made from an old brown skirt hiked up to my armpits. She cut fringe into the hem and made sure it would fit over my winter coat. Wearing a coat under the costume was an argument I never won. My hair was braided into pigtails and tied with twine. Some brown cloth scraps turned into a head band. A beaded necklace purchased from Clarks Trading Post during a family vacation completed the look. There was a five minute argument about hats and cold weather and I was finally allowed to leave the house with my  braids unmolested and a Jordan Marsh bag in my hand.

 Several blocks into our candy route, the neighborhood boys declared war on the girls, brandishing cans of shaving cream as weapons. My brother demonstrated his allegiance by smearing a handful of cream down my back and leaving me to fend for myself with the older girls. We continued our trick or treating, taking cover at moving shadows and readying ourselves for the next assault. One of the older girls came up with the brilliant idea of asking for eggs at the next house instead of candy, and it was decided that since I was the youngest and most innocent looking, the job would be mine. I went up to the door and politely asked the man who answered if I could have some eggs instead of candy, regaling my sad story of mean boys and shaving cream. He asked me to wait and I turned back to my friends hiding in the bushes, unsure of what to do next. The man returned with a carton containing half a dozen eggs. He proceeded to instruct me on how to throw them, and that given my size, underhand would be best. He wished me luck and threw candy into my bag for good measure. I ran triumphantly back to the girls and we abandoned our trick or treating in favor of exercising our revenge. We raced the dark streets, eager to play out our dramatic plans of espionage; alternating the eggs from the carton to our hands and back again.

 As we made our way closer to home, we realized that the streets were  empty and the porch lights were out. Halloween was over. We stuffed our egg carton under a neighborhood bush before scattering to our respective houses.

 I joined my brother, already sorting his candy on the living room floor. We negotiated candy trades, casting off our hated Almond Joys into a pile to give to our mother. She came into the room brandishing paper sacks with our names on them and asked us how our night went. We talked about who had the best costume and which house was the scariest as we shoveled our candy into the bags.

 My brother never mentioned his shaving cream

 and I never said anything about my eggs.

Excerpt from "An Unusual Memoir"

A Cuban Vacation

by Ken Roy

It was December 1958 and I was living on Long Island and working at my first job out of college. It seemed, however, that the company was in a bit of trouble and told everyone they were closing for business until after the New Year. Although quite minor, for me the problem was with all this free time, and where to have a party. Fate was about to knock on the door.

I had returned home to spend the holidays with my parents in upstate New York when my roommate, Tom, called and suggested we drive down to Key West and fly over to Cuba. Of course we now had the time, the beautiful weather was an attraction and Havana was known to have a very lively nightlife. I drove to Baltimore and met Tom, jumped in his car, and off we went. It was Sunday, December 28, 1958 and we had the radio on, listening to the Baltimore Colts- NY Giants NFL championship game*. I was a fan but Tom was a total Colts nut. You can imagine his hysteria when the Colts won in sudden death overtime. To this day, the only time this has ever happened in the NFL championship. This game was the highlight of the drive to Florida as we talked of little else the rest of the trip.*

Stopping only for gas, beer and relief we arrived in Key West early the next day. We quickly parked the car at the airport and headed for the terminal. Going to Cuba in those days was a breeze, buy a ticket and go. A short time later we’re exiting the plane in Havana, without the foggiest idea where to go next. The biggest shock was being instantly surrounded by a new language. Neither of us spoke a word of Spanish or had even been out of the US before. Luckily many of the locals spoke a version of broken English and for this I am forever grateful. After a few questions it was suggested we go downtown to the Prado area, which was pretty low-rent and had plenty of tourist attractions.

Rather than jumping into a cab, we took the local bus service downtown. Although cheap, you generally get what you pay for and this was no exception. We arrived at a hotel, at most a 2+star, and quickly checked in. So far every thing was going quite smoothly and I might add, this was much more than I expected. The next step was a no-brainer; let’s get some liquid refreshment and take a closer look at Havana.

Directly across the very narrow street was a dive-looking bar, but it was close, so in we went. As is often the case, it was quite dark on entering, and I’ll never forget, the jukebox was blasting a Frank Sinatra song, All the Way. As my eyes adjusted to the dark it was clear that a couple on the dance floor were “behaving in a friendly manner“. I couldn’t believe my eyes, the guy part of this couple was Freddie, a buddy we worked with back on Long Island. Seems he had the same thought - why not spend the vaca in Havana. He was famous for outrageous behavior and it started shortly after landing on the island. The first night was a succession of sleazy bars, too many Cuba Libras‘, and very loud music. It was non-stop party from this point forward.

The following morning was a rather slow start but we were now eagerly ready to explore Havana and its many delights. Little did I imagine how different this vacation was going to be. A revolution was brewing and we hadn’t a clue.

* Footnote: Often billed as the “Greatest Game Ever Played”, (17 of the players/coaches involved are now in the Hall of Fame), it later seemed as a marked beginning to football fever in the USA. A year later the AFL was established.

Buried Treasure

by Gail Balentine

When I was growing up, a common expression in my house was, “Wait till the dust settles”. I used to wonder where it all settled. On moving day, when I went up to my parents’ attic, I found out. Dust covered boxes, bags, and trunks of every shape and size.

My parents, sister Patty, and brother Alan had each declined to help me sort through the things up there. Mom couldn’t maneuver the stairs with her arthritic hip, Dad was too busy elsewhere, Patty had no interest in the past since her divorce, and Alan wanted to wrap up at the house quickly and get back to the work he’d brought home. Just getting him to the house today had been tough. Their collective attitude was that the movers could pitch it all since it was useless junk and they already had their hands full downstairs.

After two hours, with my back aching and my resolve weakening, I had only managed to create a huge stack of boxes for the dumpster. I went downstairs for iced tea and sympathy, getting only the former. Patty delighted in pointing out that everybody had told me the attic was the last stop before the dump.

Alan and my father came back upstairs with me and helped remove the boxes, which cleared space in the center. Next I went to an old steamer trunk, wedged in a corner. It was filled with clothes that must have belonged to my mother “back in the day”. I dragged it out to the middle of the room. Behind it I was a large box of art supplies my sister used to hold dear. Dried up paints and matted brushes covered a sketchbook. When I opened it, it was filled with drawings of animals and someone with a huge nose that I feared was supposed to be me. That box went into the middle, too, and I got that tingle of excitement that tells me the idea I was forming was right.

I went searching for a particular item and found it four boxes later. When Alan was 10 years old, Dad and he spent an entire summer building a three foot sailboat; it was beautiful and sleek in the water until a remote-controlled speedboat rammed into it. Alan had been so bereft that he refused to listen to assurances that it could be fixed. After a few days of trying to reason with him, Dad packed the boat away in the attic and nobody ever mentioned it again.

At lunchtime, I walked into the kitchen to find each person working separately, in silence. I called to them and they turned to see me wearing what I thought was my mother’s prom gown, holding the sailboat in my right hand - good side showing - and the sketch book in my left, opened to a horse in full gallop with muscles that seemed to ripple off the page.

Unfortunately, with both hands full, I couldn’t take a picture to capture the looks on my family’s faces. My mother made a sound somewhere between a laugh and sob as she and Dad stared at the dress. His hand reached over to clasp hers. And Patty? Well, she just grabbed the drawing pad and said, “Damn! I was good!”

But it was Alan that made my eyes tear up. He looked like a child again, that perpetual scowl I hated replaced with a genuine smile.

Before I knew it, everyone was talking at once, laughing, and sharing stories, taking us back to a time before life had thrown us curves that we’d not seen coming.

As her fingers traced the outline of the horse, Patty spoke about how much she’d liked to draw, and Mom mentioned art groups at our local community center. Dad asked Alan if he thought Matt, the first grandchild, might like the boat and plans to fix it began right then.

Mom came over and hugged me. Turns out the dress was the one she wore for her and Dad’s engagement party. We went into the living room, put in an oldies CD, and rooted around in a box until we found the photograph album she wanted. We laughed at how young she and Dad looked that night.

That was how my husband found us when he arrived to help - sitting on the sheet-covered couch looking at pictures, Mom with pink cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes and me with a formal dress over my tee shirt and jeans, socks and sneakers on my feet, and hair filled with cobwebs.

He laughed and said, “Whatcha doin’?”

We replied in tandem, “Treasure hunting!”

*******

Memories of Chocolate

First in many memories of chocolate is thinking:
What a silly ad campaign!
Of course they melt in your hand
Especially since you hold them tight
The hand, warm with anticipation
Of delivering the candy to your tongue.
You never drop any on the floor.

Then there is good dark chocolate
A mahogany aroma that you could sleep in
Cocoa velvet tassels on a high canopy bed
Made up with rich mink pelts joined together
You in an espresso robe of chocolate kisses
Trimmed in silver foil tuxedo lapels and cuffs.

Even the white "chocolate" is good when mixed
With the milk and dark varieties in a homemade cookie
And yes, I use it in my white chocolate cheesecake recipe.
Eaters always ask: what is that? A secret ingredient?


(Ciampa, Liz. What is Left. Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 11. Print.)