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Posted by lycan librarian in Uncategorized.

     It happens to the best of us, no matter how many times we swear we’ll never tell the “when I was your age” or “when I was a kid” stories. It happened to me last night at a Halloween party when a young whippersnapper was talking about his fond memories of trick or treating on his cul-de-sac because he always got loads of candy. Candy? For me, that was only the excuse to be unleashed and sent out, unchaperoned, into the night. I never cared what got thrown into my bag, I only cared that my friends and I were walking our familiar streets and alleyways under the mysterious cover of night. Sure, we were instructed to only go so far and not venture into certain territories, which, of course, made doing so even more exciting. I guess that shows how old I am, because kids today are carefully walked or driven around, and most of the time, trick or treating ends when it begins to get dark.

     One of the most horrible Halloween experiences of my youth was when two of my friends and I went out one blustery Halloween night. Dead, crunchy leaves swirled around our ankles as we walked to an extravagantly decorated house, and a tall couple answered the door dressed like a farmer and his wife wearing blood spattered aprons and laughing hysterically. I stood open-mouthed, staring at the two of them, which made them laugh even harder. I was so glad to get away from that house, but the uneasiness followed me in the wind for the rest of the evening, and I jumped as I turned every corner.  When I got home and dumped out my bag, there was a paper bag laying in the jumble of candy. I reached into it and extracted a cheerfully wrapped home-made popcorn ball, but could tell there was something else in the bottom of the bag. I put my hand in, closed it around something that felt really weird, and pulled out — a real, honest to goodness chicken foot! I started screaming and my mother came over and started laughing.
     “They gave you a trick and a treat!” She said, and then did the motherly thing and disposed of the awful foot for me.
     The thrill of the fright that foot had given me was exhilarating. And the thrill lived on — the next day when I went to school, my friend, Donna, was wearing her chicken foot, painted gold, as a necklace.



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