Halloween with the kids does remind me of my childhood, mostly the differences, but I don't want to spend too much time with how it was back in the "day." I don't remember Halloween much before age 10, except for that we did much more in school, like dressing up and having parties. Somewhere along the line, a parent sued and so we now we call Halloween "Beggar's Night" or some other safe-sounding phrase that doesn't rile up anyone. School parties are different too. This year, we're not even allowed to serve food, which means that we all sit around and stare at each other during celebrations. Not much fun.
I do remember my trick-or-treat nights being much different, but more so when I was getting older. Parents didn't walk with you through the neighborhood (although I do remember going through Greenspoint Mall in Houston once) like they do with their little ones. There were no time limits and we knocked on every door, sometimes well after 9pm.
I remember going out once, sixth grade, with Jon Patterson from down the road. And while the venturing through Greengate is a story within itself, I dredge up so much more about my junior high years that had more of an affect on me that I thought ever would.
Jon and I pretty much ran that street. We lived in a cul-de-sac, played football while waiting for the bus and baseball games in the court next to the Rice's house. There were a large group of us, some of us popular, some of us outcasts and all of us unsupervised. We smoked cigarettes (although my mom did eventually realize I had been smoking in the garage), cursed, hid adult magazines in vacant home's cabinets, cursed, watched scrambled Playboy Channel and snuck in each other's backyards. We fought sometimes and we tackled each other on the concrete even though we were supposed to tackle one another in the grass. We talked lewdly about girls, terrorized our smaller siblings, bullied kids on the bus and popped fireworks in neighbor's porches. Once, the guy living across from us chased us from the yard and caught me, specifically, gave me a good shaking and sent me away to fetch my dad. In the altercation that followed, I realized that my step-dad was behind me all the way, even though I was totally in the wrong. Funny how I can think about that event, and all the tears he spent on me years later when I was a confused high school kid. We may not talk much now, but it has nothing to do with that night, nor the tears, but alot to do with men and their fathers.
Jon Patterson. I was lucky one night to have seen him again after many years not knowing how he had ended up. His story took him out of state that year, and his house was occupied by people who never came outside. He drove through the toll lane where I worked as a supervisor, jotted down his number and we ended up talking. He had the voice of a guy who had been through a divorce, maybe a stint in juvenile detention. I was a guy who was lucky enough to have been renewed in a relationship with my future wife, still directionless but alive and in the right place.
Driving through Louisiana last year, I stopped at a gas station. One of those nasty coffee stops in the middle of the night, and as I'm walking out I notice a familiar face walking past the open door. Pax Whatley. Another one of those neighborhood kids who was around through much of those times. He lives in Wisconsin now, but on his was up north, we pass each other in a roadside gas station. God gives you those treats sometimes, eve when you've lived the life of a trickster.
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