When Porch Lights Led Us Home
Family Halloween Memories from the Days of Homemade Magic
When I think of Halloween in Fort Wayne in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I do not first remember decorations from a store or costumes sealed inside shiny plastic packages. I remember the sound of six children—five girls and one boy, the middle child—getting ready at once. I remember the scrape of dresser drawers opening and closing, the thump of shoes on the floor, and the laughter that traveled from one room to another as we transformed ourselves with whatever we could find around the house. I remember the faint smell of charcoal on my cheeks, the weight of a nearly empty pillowcase in my hand, and the promise that before the night was over it would be heavy with treasure.
Before Halloween Came in a Box
In our family, costumes were not bought so much as discovered. We searched closets, laundry baskets, coat hooks, and the backs of drawers. We borrowed from our mother, brother, and Dad. An old jacket became the beginning of a character. A pair of trousers too large for us became comedy. A battered hat, a loose tie, and shoes that slapped against the sidewalk could turn an ordinary child into someone who looked as though he had stepped out of an old movie.
I usually went as a bum, which was what people called that familiar homemade costume then. I would put charcoal on my face for whiskers and soot, pull on my brothers’ or Dad’s oversized clothes, and shuffle around the house making everyone laugh. There was no careful makeup tutorial and no perfect costume to copy. The fun was in invention. We made a little theater from what we had.
Looking back, I can see echoes of Judy Garland and Fred Astaire in Easter Parade, dressed in their worn, comical finery while singing “We’re a Couple of Swells.” That was the spirit of it: borrowed elegance gone delightfully crooked, sleeves too long, trousers too loose, and children pretending to be worldly characters while trying not to trip over their own cuffs.
None of us worried that our costumes did not match some picture on a package. Each one had a story because each one had been assembled by hand. A scarf could make a fortune-teller. A sheet could make a ghost. An old dress, coat, apron, or hat could open the door to an entirely different life. We did not have endless choices, but we had imagination, and imagination made us rich.
There was something tender in the way the whole house contributed. Dad’s clothes carried the shape and scent of him. A brother’s shirt came with the feeling of having borrowed something slightly forbidden. Mom’s things could become mysterious or glamorous. Even the charcoal from the house became part of the magic. Our costumes belonged not only to us but to the family. We wore pieces of one another into the night.
Three Nights and Six Pillowcases
Usually all six of us kids went out. Just imagine the energy of six children trying to get through the same doorway, each with a plan, each convinced that his or her pillowcase would be the fullest by the end of the night. We were a small parade spilling onto the Fort Wayne sidewalks.
A pillowcase was the only sensible candy bag. Little paper sacks were too delicate, and plastic pumpkins were too small. A pillowcase could hold ambition. At the beginning of the evening it fluttered lightly at your side. After a few blocks it began to sag. Later, you had to switch hands. By the end, it might drag against your leg like a sack of gold hauled home by a very tired pirate.
The first few houses were always the beginning of the adventure. We climbed porch steps, knocked, and called out “Trick or treat!” The door opened onto warmth and lamplight. Behind the grown-up holding the bowl, you might see a living room, a television, or the family’s supper dishes. Then came the wonderful decision: what would drop into the pillowcase?
The sound mattered almost as much as the candy. A small piece made a soft pat. A handful made a glorious rattle. A full-size candy bar landed with authority. Coins sounded different from everything else—a bright metallic surprise that made us look at one another with wide eyes.
Because we could go for three nights, Halloween had chapters. One evening might be spent nearby, another ranging farther, and Halloween night itself carried the deepest excitement. We learned which streets were generous and which porches were worth the climb. We remembered the houses that gave something unusual. The neighborhood became a map written in chocolate, pennies, porch lights, and rumor.
There was safety in our number. Six siblings could fill a sidewalk, tease one another, hurry one another along, and keep anyone from feeling alone. The older ones knew more. The younger ones tried to keep up. We argued, laughed, warned each other about cracked sidewalks, and called back when someone fell behind.
Fort Wayne in late October had its own feel. The trees had let go of many of their leaves, and the sidewalks were scattered with them. The air carried the dry, earthy smell of autumn. Our breath showed when the evening turned cold. Streetlights cast yellow pools along the way, while between them the blocks seemed darker and more mysterious than they did during the day.
We walked for blocks—farther than children today might be allowed to roam at night. Our destination was the high-class neighborhood, where we believed the great prizes waited. One of my older sisters had taught me the important social geography of Halloween. According to her, even our own neighbor would have been considered high middle class. To a child, those words sounded like a rank in a kingdom, and Halloween permitted us to visit its gates.
The Long Walk to the Best Candy
The houses in that neighborhood seemed grander to us. The lawns looked broader, the porches more polished, and the doorways brighter. We approached with the confidence of seasoned travelers who had crossed half of Fort Wayne on foot, even if the actual distance was only a handful of long blocks.
That was where the full-size candy bars appeared. Not every house gave them, of course, which made the discovery even more thrilling. When one landed in a pillowcase, the news traveled quickly among us. We would gather near the bottom of the steps and whisper, “They’re giving out the big ones!” Then we moved on with renewed purpose.
Sometimes we received money. A few coins may not sound like much now, but tucked among the candy they felt astonishing. Candy disappeared; money held possibility. It could become another treat later, or simply remain in a pocket as evidence that Halloween had paid us for our courage.
We were not calculating the value in any grown-up way. We were collecting stories. One house gave the largest bar. Another let us choose. Another had decorations that made a younger child hesitate at the walk. Another belonged to someone who recognized our family despite our charcoal, hats, and oversized coats.
At each doorway we offered our little performance. A costume made from old clothes asked the person at the door to imagine with us. Perhaps they saw six children whose family had not spent much money on costumes. But if they looked closely, they also saw ingenuity, boldness, and joy. We had dressed ourselves out of the common life of the household and turned it into celebration.
The farther we walked, the heavier our pillowcases grew. At first we swung them. Then we carried them carefully. Eventually the weight pulled down on our arms, and we learned to cradle the bags or throw them over a shoulder. A torn pillowcase would have been a disaster, so we watched the seams and guarded our haul.
There were negotiations along the route. Should we try one more block? Had we already visited that street? Was the porch light on? Were the younger ones tired? Did we have time before families began turning off their lights? Six children could produce six opinions, yet somehow the group kept moving.
The night itself seemed to encourage us. Leaves skittered after our feet. Shadows moved along hedges. A porch ornament could become a crouching monster until we got closer. The dark was spooky but friendly, because other children were everywhere. Their voices floated from block to block, and costumes passed us like characters in a dream.
We did not have phones to call home from the sidewalk, maps glowing in our hands, or photographs of every stop. The memories stayed inside us instead. Perhaps that is why certain details remain so vivid: a cold hand gripping cloth, the little shock of a full-size bar, a sister’s confident directions, the glow of a doorway, and the sound of six sets of feet heading home.
The House Waiting for Us
No matter how far we roamed, the best part of Halloween was coming home. We would turn onto our own block tired, cold, and triumphant. The house was no longer just the place we had left. It had become the warm center of the night.
Inside, hot cider waited for us. The fragrance greeted us before the first sip—the sweetness of apples and the comforting spice of autumn. After the chill outside, the cup warmed our fingers. Store-bought doughnuts waited too, alongside fresh apples, homemade baked goods, and popcorn balls shaped by hand from hot sugar-and-corn-syrup popcorn. Together, they made the table feel abundant and special. These were not everyday treats casually left on a counter. They belonged to the occasion.
Making those treats was part of the celebration. Before Halloween night, we got to help Mom and Grandma prepare everything for the festivities. We watched them work the warm, sticky popcorn mixture into round balls, and when our hands were allowed near it, we helped shape each one as carefully as we could. The kitchen filled with the sweetness of hot syrup, popcorn, and fresh baking, while apples waited nearby to be washed and polished.
Those homemade treats carried the touch of three generations. Mom and Grandma knew what to do, and we children learned by watching, stirring, carrying, wrapping, and sneaking hopeful glances at the finished batches. By the time the table was laid, the popcorn balls and baked goods held more than sugar. They held our fingerprints, our anticipation, and the pleasure of having helped create the feast we would return to after trick-or-treating.
The table was laid out like a Halloween feast. Mom had made homecoming part of the celebration. The sight of that table told us that our adventure mattered. She had prepared a place for six excited children to return, spread out their treasure, talk over one another, and relive the night while it was still happening.
We would loosen costume pieces and peel away parts of our characters. Hats came off. Oversized jackets fell over chair backs. Charcoal remained on my face, perhaps smudged from the long walk. The children who had left the house pretending to be other people became ourselves again—but selves enlarged by the night.
Then came the great pouring out. A pillowcase tipped over a tabletop creates a magnificent commotion. Candy bars, wrapped sweets, gum, lollipops, and coins tumbled together. Six hauls meant six small mountains. We looked over what we had earned through miles of walking and dozens of brave approaches to strange doorways.
Each child began the important work of sorting. Chocolate in one place. Hard candy in another. Favorites guarded closely. Disappointments pushed toward the edge. Strange pieces examined. Anything unwrapped viewed with suspicion. The table became a marketplace before any official trading had begun.
Dad worked the night shift, but on Halloween night he would stop home to see our stash. That detail means more to me now than it did then. As children, we simply expected the important people in our lives to appear. As an adult, I understand that stopping home required intention. He was working, yet he made room in the night to see what we had gathered and share in our excitement.
Dad’s arrival brought a new burst of excitement. He looked at our costumes, our faces, and the candy spread across the table while six stories competed to be heard at once. Each of us wanted to show him the best piece before anyone else did.
That quick visit stitched the family together. Mom had prepared the feast. Dad came from the night shift. Six children brought home the spoils. For a little while, the entire world fit around that Halloween table.
The Great Basement Candy Exchange
Once the cider, doughnuts, popcorn balls, apples, and homemade goodies had been thoroughly ravished upstairs in the dining room, we migrated to the basement. We did not merely go downstairs; we descended upon our kingdom.
And what a basement it was. Beyond the practical laundry area, Dad’s workshop, and a half bath stretched a huge family room that seemed to have everything: bookshelves packed with wonderful books, a fake fireplace that gave the room an air of importance, and a combination television, radio, and stereo console that looked like the command center of the house.
We had managed, in remarkably little time, to blow out the console’s speakers. With six children and all those records, their chances had never been good. That was why another record player eventually joined the room, ready to spin our many tunes without endangering the television—or so the grown-ups probably hoped.
There was also a ping-pong table and, crowning the whole marvelous arrangement, a full wet bar. To children in the late 1960s and early 1970s, that basement felt impossibly sophisticated. We had books, music, games, a bar, and bags of candy. We had arrived.
Someone would put on a record, and the room took on a rhythm of its own. “Monster Mash” was practically required. “The Purple People Eater” brought out everyone’s silliest side, while “Witch Doctor” invited a chorus whether anyone knew all the words or not. “I Put a Spell on You” added a little theatrical menace, and the themes from The Addams Family and The Munsters made the basement feel like the official headquarters of Halloween.
As we got older and our tastes expanded, the mood might turn darker and cooler with “Season of the Witch,” “People Are Strange,” or Santana’s “Black Magic Woman.” One minute we were laughing over a novelty song; the next we were trying to look worldly while standing beside a ping-pong table with charcoal still smudged on our faces.
From the wet bar, we could grab a Tom and Jerry’s or a bright green Green River soda. With a cold bottle in one hand and our candy spread before us, we settled in for the serious business of the night. The music spun, the soda fizzed, and the great candy trade commenced.
Every child had a private system of value. One person’s unwanted candy was another person’s treasure. Chocolate commanded respect. Gum had loyal defenders. A full-size bar could require a complicated package deal involving several lesser candies, future considerations, and possibly a solemn promise not to tell Mom.
We bargained like tiny business tycoons. “Two of these for one of those.” “No deal.” “Then throw in the gum.” “You already have three!” Offers were proposed, rejected, revised, and occasionally withdrawn in outrage. If the negotiations stalled, a sibling might wander off for another soda, play a round of ping-pong, and return hoping the market had improved.
Because there were six of us, almost nothing remained unwanted for long. Someone liked what someone else could not stand. That was the beauty of the exchange. We rearranged our piles until each of us felt richer, although nobody could explain why six pieces of candy traded back and forth for an hour somehow seemed better than the same six pieces we had started with.
The basement grew loud with records, bouncing ping-pong balls, fizzing soda, laughter, and the occasional accusation of an unfair trade. The fake fireplace presided over it all with great dignity. The books waited patiently on their shelves while six children conducted business beneath them.
Eventually, each of us gathered our newly negotiated treasure and carried it toward whatever hiding place seemed safest. In a house with six children, no hiding place remained secret for long, but hope was part of the game.
Later, when the records stopped and the basement finally quieted, the costumes returned to their original lives as family clothes. Dad’s shirt became Dad’s shirt. A scarf went back into a drawer. The charcoal washed away. But for a few days, the house still felt changed—as if “Monster Mash” might start playing again at any moment and summon us all back downstairs.
Mom’s Monsters
Our love of Halloween did not end when the porch lights went out. It lived in the old scary movies we watched, a tradition that came from Mom. She gave us an affection for the shadows of classic horror—the kind made from atmosphere, imagination, and unforgettable faces.
Vincent Price was one of the great masters of that world. His voice alone could make a room feel colder. We could watch him in House of Wax, The Fly, House on Haunted Hill, or one of the richly colored Edgar Allan Poe films such as The Pit and the Pendulum. He brought elegance to fear. Even when a story was dreadful, he made it beautiful to listen to.
Bela Lugosi was Dracula to us—the dark cape, the deliberate gaze, the strange dignity of a monster who seemed to have crossed an ocean and a century to enter the living room. The 1931 Dracula did not need the speed or noise of later horror. It had silence, mist, shadows, and Lugosi’s measured voice. Those pauses gave a child’s imagination plenty of room to work.
Lon Chaney Jr. gave us the sadness of The Wolf Man. His monster was frightening, but he was also tragic. He did not simply choose evil; he was caught by it. Watching him change under the moon taught us that old horror stories could carry sorrow as well as scares.
Then there were the other creatures who belonged to that black-and-white kingdom: Boris Karloff’s monster in Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein, the bandaged mystery of The Mummy, and the unseen menace of The Invisible Man. Even when the effects were simple, they stirred something lasting.
Those films suited our homemade Halloweens. The monsters themselves often seemed assembled from ordinary things—a cape, a shadow, a laboratory table, a strip of cloth, a little makeup, a careful voice. Like our costumes, they asked the audience to participate. They trusted imagination.
Watching them with Mom changed the nature of fear. A frightening image was less frightening when someone you loved had invited it into the house. She could share what she remembered, recognize an actor, or tell us which movie was worth staying awake to see. Her enjoyment gave us permission to enjoy the shiver.
The television set cast its pale light across the room. If the movie aired late, the rest of the house seemed unusually quiet. The furnace might click on. A branch might brush the window. We knew perfectly well that Dracula was on the screen, yet walking down a dark hallway afterward still required courage.
Perhaps that is one reason those actors remain so vivid. They are attached not only to films but to a room, a season, and a mother’s influence. Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi, and Lon Chaney Jr. became members of our October family, returning each year along with cider, doughnuts, costumes, and candy.
A City Seen at a Child’s Pace
The Fort Wayne of my childhood was measured on foot, beginning at our family home on Oakdale Drive and stretching outward one familiar block at a time. We had moved there during the summer of my eighth birthday, so the house and the street became part of a new chapter in my childhood. Oakdale was more than the street where our walks began; it was the place we belonged, the address at the center of our family life, and the road that always led us home. We knew distance by how long our arms carried a pillowcase, by how many corners we turned, and by whether the youngest child began asking when we were going home. We noticed porches, alleys, hedges, sidewalks, and the faces of neighbors.
Halloween made the city intimate. Doors that remained closed most of the year opened one after another. Adults who might have been strangers smiled, admired our costumes, and gave us something. For three nights, the neighborhood practiced a quiet ritual of trust.
The houses did not all look alike. Some were modest and crowded close to the sidewalk. Some stood back behind lawns that seemed enormous to us. Some porches were brightly decorated, while others offered only a lit bulb and a bowl of candy. Yet every open door became part of the same shared celebration.
We understood differences in wealth without fully understanding them. The high-class neighborhood had the reputation for bigger treats, and my sister’s description of our neighbor as high middle class gave us a child’s vocabulary for status. But Halloween also blurred those distinctions. A generous handful from a modest house could feel just as grand as a full-size bar from a larger one.
The greatest wealth was not visible from the street. It was waiting at home: Mom and Grandma’s homemade popcorn balls and baked goods, fresh apples, hot cider and doughnuts, Dad making time during his night shift, and six siblings crowding around a table. We chased the rich neighborhood’s candy, but the real riches belonged to the family that welcomed us back.
Still, the walk mattered. Children need horizons they can reach under their own power. That distant block, the rumored candy bar, and the decision to go farther gave us a small taste of independence. We navigated, made choices, managed time, and looked after one another.
Every year, the same streets became new beneath Halloween darkness. A familiar hedge could seem haunted. A quiet house could appear mysterious. A neighbor transformed by a mask could surprise us. The city did not need an amusement park; a cold night and a child’s imagination were enough.
Even the weather became part of the memory. Some Halloweens were crisp and dry. Others may have carried dampness or a sharper wind. Costumes made from real clothes had one practical advantage: there was room to layer. Dad’s oversized jacket could be funny and warm at the same time.
Cars passed, leaves blew, and distant voices rose and faded. Somewhere a dog barked at every group that approached. Somewhere an adult leaned against a doorway, holding a bowl and waiting for the next knock. We were only one family among many, but from inside childhood it felt as if all Fort Wayne had arranged the night for us.
What We Had—and What We Did Not Need
It is easy to romanticize the past, and the late 1960s and early 1970s were not perfect. Families had worries. Money could be tight. Parents worked hard, and six children could stretch every resource in a household. But childhood does not remember a balance sheet. It remembers how life felt.
We did not need every moment photographed to believe it had happened. We did not interrupt the night to arrange ourselves perfectly. Our costumes could be crooked, our faces smudged, and our smiles unplanned. Memory kept the important picture.
We did not need Halloween to be contained within a few supervised minutes. Three nights gave the holiday room to breathe. There was anticipation, repetition, strategy, and the sweet exhaustion of having done it all again. By Halloween night, we were veterans.
The pillowcase was an honest symbol of that childhood. It came from the house, served another purpose during the year, and became magical when needed. It was large enough for hope, strong enough for the journey, and humble enough to be overlooked when the season ended.
Our homemade costumes carried the same truth. They were temporary arrangements of permanent family things. When I wore Dad’s or my brother’s clothes, I was not escaping the family; I was creating from it. The costume worked because it held traces of people I knew.
The charcoal on my face was messy and imperfect. Perhaps it rubbed onto a collar or came off on a hand. Yet I can remember it more clearly than I might remember a flawless mask. It required participation. Someone had to find it, apply it, laugh at the result, and tell me whether I looked ready.
Even the candy trade revealed a kind of sufficiency. None of us had exactly what we wanted, but together we had enough variety to improve everyone’s pile. We learned to ask, to offer, to hold out, and sometimes to give in.
The night shift reminds me that joy was built around work, not apart from it. Dad could not simply take the evening off, but he found a way to enter the celebration. Mom’s feast did not appear by magic; she planned and prepared it. The beauty we remember was created by people who were likely tired.
That understanding deepens with age. As children, we received the evening whole. We did not see the effort beneath it. Now I can look back and recognize love in practical form: warmed cider, bought doughnuts, an open table, a father stopping home, and parents listening patiently to six versions of the same adventure.
The Soundtrack of the Memory
Every lasting memory has a soundtrack, and this one begins with doors and footsteps. Drawers open. Closet hangers slide against a rod. Shoes cross the floor. Children call from one room to another. Mom gives a reminder. Someone laughs at the costume taking shape.
Then comes the outdoor music: leaves crackling beneath our feet, pillowcases brushing against coats, porch steps creaking, knuckles tapping on wood, doorbells ringing, and six voices offering the traditional greeting with varying degrees of politeness and enthusiasm.
There is the small rain of candy into cloth. There are whispered reports from the children ahead of us. There is the hollow sound of a gate closing and the sudden bark of a dog. Farther away, other trick-or-treaters call to friends we cannot see.
Home has another set of sounds: cups set on the table, doughnuts shifted on a plate, wrappers being sorted, coins spun and counted, and six children talking at once. Dad’s voice enters from the doorway, and the room changes because he has made it home.
The candy trade adds negotiation, accusation, triumph, and laughter. A wrapper tears. Someone claims a deal was misunderstood. Mom restores order or lets us settle it ourselves. A favorite piece is unwrapped, and for a moment the child who has it is perfectly content.
Later, perhaps, an old horror movie begins. The music rises ominously. Vincent Price speaks in that unmistakable voice. Bela Lugosi pauses before a line. A wolf howls for Lon Chaney Jr. The television hums, and our noisy family grows quiet enough to listen.
Memory keeps smells too. Cold leaves. Wool or old fabric from a borrowed coat. Charcoal. Hot apple cider. Fresh doughnuts with their sugar and grease. Chocolate when the first bar is opened. These fragrances belong to a house that was alive with people.
And memory keeps light: the blue-gray autumn evening, yellow streetlamps, orange porch bulbs, living-room lamps glimpsed through open doors, and the pale flicker of a black-and-white monster movie. The brightest light was at the table where our treasure lay.
If I close my eyes, I can place myself there—not as an observer looking backward but as a child inside the moment. My hand is cold. My pillowcase is heavy. My face is marked with charcoal. My brothers and sisters are nearby. Home is ahead.
Six Children, Six Versions of the Night
With six children, no family memory belongs to only one person. Each of us carried a different Halloween home. One may remember a particular house. Another may remember getting frightened. Someone else may remember the exact candy traded away or the argument that followed.
The older siblings possessed knowledge that seemed almost magical. They knew routes, reputations, and rules. They knew which neighborhood counted as high class and which house might give something better than ordinary candy. To the younger ones, that information carried authority.
The younger children added urgency. Their legs were shorter, their courage sometimes more fragile, and their excitement impossible to contain. The group had to stretch and contract around them. We might race ahead, then wait beneath a streetlight for everyone to catch up.
Birth order shaped the evening. An older child could negotiate a later return or suggest one more block. A younger child could appeal to sympathy, receive help with a costume, or be coaxed toward a porch that looked too frightening.
At home, the piles showed our differences. Even if we visited the same doors, luck varied. A hand reached into a bowl and came out with one thing rather than another. A homeowner gave an extra piece to the smallest child. Someone arrived just as the supply was nearly gone and received the last several treats.
Yet we remained one unit in the telling. We were “all six of us kids.” That phrase contains a whole moving world: six coats, six voices, six pillowcases, six appetites, six sets of preferences, and six places at the family table.
A large family could be chaotic, but it made celebration bigger. There was always someone with whom to share excitement. There was always an audience for a costume and a partner for the walk. No movie was watched alone, and no candy trade lacked competition.
Years later, siblings may disagree about the details. Was it colder that year? Which neighbor gave money? Who wore which coat? Did Dad arrive before or after the trading started? The disagreements do not weaken the memory. They prove that we all carried it forward.
Some family stories survive because they were dramatic. Others survive because they happened again and again until they became part of identity. Our three nights of trick-or-treating, our homemade costumes, the cider and doughnuts, Dad’s stop from work, and the candy trade formed a ritual. Repetition turned an ordinary holiday into family history.
We did not know we were making history. Children never do. We were simply trying to reach the next porch before the other kids, keep our pillowcases from tearing, and get home in time to show Dad what we had found.
Why the Old Movies Still Matter
The classic horror movies gave Halloween a past older than our own childhood. When we watched them, we entered stories that had frightened audiences before we were born. The films connected our Fort Wayne living room to dark castles, foggy villages, wax museums, laboratories, and lonely moors.
They moved slowly enough for dread to gather. A door opened. A candle shook. Footsteps approached from beyond the frame. A face emerged from shadow. The monsters were sometimes visible, sometimes hidden, but the imagination was always at work.
Vincent Price could turn language itself into scenery. His careful delivery made every sentence feel like a hallway lined with portraits whose eyes might follow you. He could be sinister, sorrowful, charming, or all three at once.
Bela Lugosi made stillness powerful. He did not need to chase anyone down a street. He stood, looked, and spoke, and the room belonged to him. For children accustomed to noisy play, that controlled menace had a special effect.
Still Walking Home
All these years later, part of me is still walking home through Fort Wayne on Halloween night. The pillowcase is heavy against my leg, the air has that sharp October bite, and my brother and sisters are close enough that I can hear their laughter in the dark. We have crossed into the neighborhood of full-size candy bars and returned victorious, with coins buried somewhere beneath the chocolate and wrappers. We are tired, cold, and completely happy.
Ahead is our porch, glowing like a promise. Beyond the door wait hot cider, store-bought doughnuts, fresh apples, homemade baked goods, and the popcorn balls we helped Mom and Grandma shape with our own small hands. Mom is there, making the house feel warm before we even step inside. Dad will pause during his night shift to see our costumes and admire our treasure. At the time, we thought he came to see the candy. Now I know he came to see us.
If I could speak to those six children for just a moment, I would tell them to slow down. I would ask them to look carefully at Mom by the table, at Grandma’s hands, at Dad standing in the doorway in his uniform, and at one another gathered beneath the same roof. I would tell them that one day the people in that room would become more precious than anything in their pillowcases.
But children are not meant to understand such things. Their job is to run, laugh, bargain, spill cider, play records too loudly, and believe that another Halloween will always come exactly the same way. Our job, years later, is to remember for them.
And I do remember. I remember all three nights, all six of us, and the homemade costumes pieced together from the people we loved. I remember charcoal on my face, sleeves hanging past my hands, and pillows stuffed into my oversized shirt and trousers until I looked comically round. I remember the long walk to the grander neighborhood, the unexpected coins, and the satisfying weight of a full-size candy bar dropping into a pillowcase.
I remember the basement glowing purple beneath the black lights, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and the Rolling Stones watching from psychedelic posters while “Monster Mash” spun on the record player. I remember Green River soda, ping-pong balls bouncing across the table, and candy negotiations conducted with the seriousness of world diplomacy.
I remember Mom’s old monsters—Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi, and Lon Chaney Jr.—filling the television with shadows. Yet the darkness never truly frightened us, because we were together. The monsters stayed on the screen, while love lived all around us in ordinary things: a cup of cider, a plate of doughnuts, a father’s brief visit, a mother’s preparations, and Grandma’s hands helping ours.
Most of all, I remember coming home. That is the heart of it. We could wander for blocks through the chilly Fort Wayne night because somewhere a light was on for us. Someone knew we were coming. Someone had set the table. Someone was waiting at the door.
Life was beautiful back then—not polished, expensive, or perfect, but beautiful in the way that matters most. We made magic from old clothes and charcoal. We made wealth from pillowcases and candy. We made a celebration from records, popcorn balls, bright soda, and a basement full of books and laughter. We did not know how fortunate we were, because love was so constant that it felt ordinary.
Although I have moved away from Fort Wayne, every October I return there in my heart and mind. Time and distance have carried me far from those nights, but they have not taken them away. The leaves still skitter along Oakdale Drive, porch lights glow through the dark, six children walk together, and a warm house waits at the end of the journey.
In memory, the door still opens. Mom is there. Grandma’s treats are on the table. Dad has stopped home from work. My brother and sisters are laughing, the records are spinning downstairs, and for one more moment we are all young, all together, and exactly where we belong.
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