Masks, Mischief, and Mom’s Favorites - An Ogdensburg Halloween

It's after 10pm, and I've been out for a few hours; my cousins and I are running — full sprint — down New York Avenue, hearts pounding harder than African drums before a tribal war. Halloween in Ogdensburg, circa 1976. The big kids — the predators of the evening — were after us. Or more precisely, after our candy.

Now, when I say "the big kids," I don't mean well-meaning middle schoolers in last-minute sheets. I mean roving teenage warlords. These guys worked in packs, descending like Halloween hyenas on this one night, trying to cull the herd of happy kids going about their business. And every year, some poor kid — running from them like a lone antelope being chased on the Serengeti by a pride of lions — would trip on a root or cracked sidewalk, spill their whole payload like a busted piñata, and the wolves would pounce.

     There the poor kid lay, rolling around, unable to get up easily — his tight plastic costume restricting his movement, his Casper the Friendly Ghost mask wearing that same stupid grin like he was at a birthday party instead of a candy crime scene. You couldn't stop to help. You didn't dare. It was candy combat, and survival meant speed, cunning, and a low center of gravity.

     Running was never exactly my thing. Not just because I was what the clothing tag at Grants called "husky" — but because I was zipped into one of those boxed department-store costumes with the little cellophane window and the dopey mask smiling sappily out at you. I’d picked the scariest monster they had — which back then might've been a skeleton — not one of these kids today looking like they just walked off a true-crime scene.

     The costume was made of some plasticky material so flammable a focused flashlight might set it ablaze. And the mask? A molded plastic sweat trap. Too small for your face and muffled your voice so bad you had to communicate in grunts and hand signals like an infantry unit.

     And to top it all off? I was lugging a bushel of candy.

     Eventually, after hitting what felt like every house on the west side of Ogdensburg, we'd stumble home, anxious to see our gains. Dumping our spoils on the kitchen table like victorious pirates with ill-gotten booty. My mom would circle nearby, angelic and casual, surgically removing "just a few" of her favorites — which, oddly enough, always included the Reese's, Kit-Kats, and the rare, glorious 100 Grand bars.

     Then there was my older brother Mike — a candy-hustler of the highest order — always watching for the perfect moment to sneak a hand into my pile like a raccoon at a campsite.

     Back then, there were no "fun-size" candies. That was a dark future no one had yet envisioned. No — you got real candy. Full-sized Mounds, Hershey bars, Zagnuts, and Clark bars. Other favorites included Sweet Tarts, Tootsie Rolls, Blow Pops, Smarties, Pixie Stix, Now & Laters, Sixlets, Sugar Babies — and that oddball old-timer: the Necco Wafer.

     Necco Wafers… a candy so devoid of joy, so utterly barren of kid-like appeal, it looked like stale communion wafers and tasted like they were soaked in Angostura bitters. Candy? Or subtle revenge?

     And yes, every now and then, you'd get an apple. But this was the era of whispered warnings — razor blades! — even though no one, anywhere, ever actually found one. An urban legend that refused to die. Still, it went straight in the trash. No risks. Not so with popcorn balls, lovingly homemade, wrapped in plastic wrap, and probably handled by three generations of unwashed hands. Those? Totally fine.

     And then… coins. Dimes. Nickels. Quarters if you were lucky. Was I trick-or-treating or getting tipped? Who knew. “If you eat the quarter, you’re body will know and turn it into nickels when you go to the bathroom, it’s a cool trick,” my brother said. I didn’t fall for that. It only worked with dimes.

     Sometimes you'd hit a house where the homeowner let you pick what you wanted from a giant bowl. Other times, it was a blind grab — the adult tossing in whatever was closest to the top of their stash. Type-A kids would examine their loot before walking off. Me? I was a solid Type-B. "Thank you!" and on to the next.

     What you carried your candy in said everything about your Halloween ambition.

     A pillowcase? You meant business. You had plans. That sucker could hold 10 pounds of candy.

     A paper bag with handles? Admirable… but doomed. Those handles snapped like dreams after the third block.

     A plastic pumpkin? Either a toddler, or a part-timer. That thing maxed out at three Kit-Kats, tops.

     Some kids went for Round Two — dropped their stash at home and hit the streets again, often hitting the same houses twice. The more observant adults might've recognized us, but by then, they'd usually had a little wine and didn't care.

     Halloween weather in the Burg was a roulette wheel. One year it could be snowing; the next, you'd be sweating through your Ben Cooper plastic disguise. But no matter what, we went out. Cold, rain, heat, or haunted fog — we went out.

     A big highlight was the Ogdensburg Cable TV studio down on State Street near the mall. Kids would be brought inside, stand in front of a black-and-white camera, say their name and age, and wave to Mom on live TV.

"Julie Robertson…8."

"Mike Johnson…10."

"Patrick Ashley…17."

(Yeah. That one raised eyebrows.)

     Now, some kids raised hell (which ironically, made sense at Halloween) and did some mischief - toilet papering a tree in front of a hated teacher’s house, soaping windows, setting businesses on fire.

     Ah, sweet memories.

     As I got older, the tables turned. I found myself on the other end — a grown-up with a devilish streak. I'd sit all twisted up in a porch chair at my brother Mike’s place on Mansion Ave, disguised as a scarecrow or some other ghoulish figure. Parents always played along with a wink and a nod, and let their kid cautiously creep past me on their way to the door, unsure if I was a decoration or a danger.

     Just when they thought they were safe — BOOM! I'd spring to life, flailing like Frankenstein in a windstorm. Kids would scream, stumble, and sometimes bolt down the street. One even ran straight into my brother's house. Beautiful.

     At my own place, I rigged the walkway with a hidden trigger. Step on it, and something would leap from the bushes. Scared 'em good — like an adult getting a surprise letter from the IRS.

     A few weeks later, the bushel of candy had been reduced to just a small bowl, dentists everywhere were making down payments on lake homes, and the Hawaiian sugar plantations were finally recovering. The Halloween decorations had been put away, snow was on the ground, and Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

No wonder we'd get fatter in the fall.