Every generation thinks they worked harder and had it better than the ones to follow.
Gen Xers were the last free range kids. We raised ourselves on hose water, canned pasta and B-O-L-O-G-N-A.
We started summer days with a hearty bowl of sugar cereal, before being unceremoniously ushered outside to the resounding slam of the deadbolt. The door didn’t open till supper, unless you needed stitches or a boneset.
Our days, and years, were packed with freedom, especially on Halloween.
Our Halloween, my mom spoiled us with hand made costumes: a devil, Big Bird, lion, scarecrows and an award-winning witch. Every house on Park Ave. was decorated and open for business. We trick-or-treated in style, snacking in real time on porches and in living rooms on brownies and popcorn balls. Our candy didn’t need a metal detector; we trusted our neighbors.
Scan this QR code to
listen to Amy’s column.
But nothing says “thanks for years of candy” like a toilet papered tree.
Eggs and cream
Halloween: When the veil between worlds thinned, and so did my parents’ give-a-hoot factor. This was also the Era of the Big Egg Crackdown: local police threatened a $50 fine for each intact egg and teenagers couldn’t buy eggs after Oct. 1.
Two weeks before Halloween while I was writing notes, I mean doing homework, my dad walked in my room holding a stack of soap, four cans of Barbasol shaving cream and a dozen eggs.
“Put those on the radiator,” he said smiling. “Eggs need heat to hatch.”
I stared. This was the same guy who woke me from a deep sleep to turn off a forgotten light.
My dad continued, “I put on different nozzles to spray farther,” he said, shaking a can, “and it’s non-mentholated, it won’t sting.”
We were pretty harmless; my nerdy friend group soaped teachers’ car windows and toilet papered trees, and similar acts of eco-friendly trickery. Compared to the radical out-of-towners who cut clothes lines, smashed pumpkins, left flaming bags of poop and burned tires, we were scaredy cats.
Freeze! Police!
Junior year was the most memorable All Hallows Eve as I walked into the night under the naked maples etched against a crescent moon. The phantom chill of autumn slipped up my sleeves and around my ears as my sneakers broke the icy edges of puddles.
Dressed in black and my battle rattle, my pockets overflowed with a flashlight, Irish Spring soap, Barbasol and my nurtured, bubble-wrapped egg bombs.I was packing some serious stink.
At the intersection of Park Ave. and Circle Street, high school students polarized in front of the Hotalings’ house. The fray began, we chased and sprayed, threw eggs and dodged them. Glowing with excitement, we walked up Park Ave., leaving a wake of slime.
During a pause in the action, we caught our breath by Becky Goyette’s house. Suddenly, a bush jumped from the ground with a man underneath yelling,“Freeze! Police!”
Nothing catalyzes the primal brain to run faster than someone yelling, “Freeze!”
Everyone scrambled. Being Park Ave. kids, we booked it for the closest safehold, the Minehan’s house.
Rambo Egg Hunter chased three of us to the front steps. Dressed as a vampire, Dr. Minehan opened his front door like we were expected guests. “Go out the back door, you nitwits,” he said, waving us inside.
“Eggs are a fineable offense,” panted Rambo Egg Hunter.
In his deadpan drawl, Count Minehan said, “Good Evening, officer. You are trespassing, this is my property. I’ll take it from here.”
What comes around
We reassembled on Helen Hill, bragging about our escapism prowess. Cold sweat and slick shaving cream had me shivering. The crowd was restless;it was time for questionable decisions.
Right on cue, four guys pulled a dumpster onto Shepherd Ave. and gave it a collective shove.
The town hall clock struck 10. My cohort wisely fled, but no one ever accused me of wisdom.
I was in the ready-to-run position, feet staggered and arms up, but why leave and reduce my chance of implication? Instead, my hand comfortably wrapped around my last bubble-wrapped-egg, I gawked. Then, I ran.
The why of the story
The high school football team in 1986 was good, but regardless of a solid record, fans were often rowdy, rude and unruly.
For many years, the night before every football game, a local man, The Heckler, called the coaches and players to taunt them. There was no caller ID, and the telephone book provided phone number and address, a little fact that would haunt The Heckler.
On game day, there was no sportsmanship pledge, no reminder to fans that they were watching kids play a game. Everyone from the dentist to the cable guy had a loose tongue and unsubstantiated opinions on tactics and technique.
The Heckler launched his battle cry curses from beneath the goal posts especially at the kicker. The 1980s motto was simple: iI you can’t stand the heat, get off the field — so they just played on.
There was nothing anyone could do, until one Halloween night on Shepherd Ave.
Sweet justice
The dumpster gathered speed like the Delaware and Hudson train, the wheels squeaking in protest as it careened down Shepherd Ave.
The four guys hid behind a truck. The dumpster zigged and zagged, then straightened. Tense on my toes, I squeezed the putrid egg in my pocket which popped releasing an eye watering stench. Still, I watched.
The dumpster finally slammed off the rear quarter panel of a car. The four guys cheered and sprinted down the hill. Seconds later, an apartment door spit out The Heckler, half dressed and swearing like a banshee.
The four boys stood in the street goading The Heckler. Indifferent to acts of retaliation, the dumpster continued its safari toward Lake Flower.
The Heckler jumped in his car, revved the engine, and floored it, or tried to.
In a few yards his car was wobbling, each tire comically swaying in a different direction. The Heckler hit the brakes. Whooping and punching the air, the four boys fled into the night.
Holding my last bar of soap and a hefty dose of schadenfreude, I jogged home, pondering the evening’s tricky takeaway: If you feel the urge to incite a car chase, remember to loosen the lug nuts first.
