After an afternoon of boys and girls ostensibly playing sports I'd head home for dinner and then sit down with my family to watch tv. On a black and white tv. This was the year of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. and Bewitched. Gilligan's Island, Shindig, and Hullabaloo. The next day in school we'd all talk about the shows and the bands. Music. We were discovering music. Paul Revere and the Raiders. the Dave Clark Five. Motown! I'd read under my covers with a flashlight for awhile then off to sleep. Then back to Gatorland and my trials.
But it being fall there was also Halloween. Mischief Night. Mick and I would guard our house from eggers and keep kids from soaping our dad's car's windows. We'd lay in the bushes with a garden hose and soak anyone who came near. One year Dave Porter threw an egg at a house and blinded an old lady in one eye. My father was on the Juvenile Committee and at night he told us what had happened and how terrible it was and why we should never throw eggs on Mischief Night. We were suitably impressed and worried.
But the next night we'd don our costumes and set out with our trusty bags for goodies. Terry, Mick, Gary Condell, and I would walk from house to house, covering the entire half of town up to West St.
Back then the adults would take the time to guess your name and we took great pleasure in fooling them. What a strange thing that was, it seems almost like a Booth Tarkington tale. The whole town walking out at night. A town of wandering children with bags of candy. We should probably have been scared. But we weren't. The only thing that brought us in was our parents calling our names, time for bed, come home, come home. And home we went to sleep and dreams. Dreams of towns filled with wandering children dressed as monsters and ghouls, wandering in search of candy.