Much ado about Halloween

While so many are hell-bent on celebrating Halloween, I am sequestering myself into my bah-humbug vision of this annual spooktacular.

You see, I've never met a ghost. I've never seen a werewolf, nor a witch on a broomstick, and I wouldn't know a hobgoblin if I tripped over one. What's unlucky about  a black cat anyway? And I don't need to get dressed up like a monster (I pretty much look that part – right, Chewbacca?).

So why all the fuss?

Let me be clear with my mild critique. It's not that I'm wishing any bad luck befall on revelers. Have your fun celebrating the dead and their dark and dank domain! It's just that this so-called holiday either has lost its appeal to me over the years, or it had little from the start.

Yet to be completely honest and upon further review: Perhaps there was a slight attraction. Some. In rather small but odd ways, for sure.

Beyond the ubiquitous trick-or-treating in which we kids collected too much candy (that created  subsequent cavities), we somewhat mischievous youngsters showed a lot of spirit back in the day and, of course, in the night. To be honest, we weren't all that evil. We never caused destruction, never turned over garbage cans nor sliced up any tires. TP didn't adorn your trees and screen doors weren't scraped with soap.

Frankly, we were not little devils.

But on the cusp of the Halloween season, we commenced our ambitious annual activities.

Perhaps we started in late September, early October. There were occasions on which we'd purchase a gallon of cider, and place it in a cloistered corner in the garage. Then, after a couple weeks, we'd drink what had become a fizzing, fermented concoction. Many parents likely wondered why their kids were so happy – ah, the anticipation of Halloween, right?

We were years ahead of today's hard cider craze.

Also in early October, we'd steal away into the nearby farmers' fields where monstrous, roaring contraptions already had devoured the cornstalks there. Most of them, anyway. There always was some remaining on the cob, and we'd scour the ground for it. Occasionally, we'd have to hide or run from the farmer who still eyed his fields. Nonetheless, our golden treasure was taken home and, like the cider, hidden away. Time would permit the corn to dry into hardened pellets.

As Halloween drew nigh, we'd shuck the corn from its cob, letting the dried kernels fall into a grocery-store paper bag. It was this bag that we'd take with us at night for what was the most satanic ritual we'd perform: Throwing corn.

Admittedly, this may be an uncommon tradition found solely in parts of Pennsylvania. Why? It is a question unanswered.

The concept behind throwing corn was simple. Go out in the evening and toss the kernels at a neighbor's doors or windows. Inside, a startling, crashing noise was heard, not unlike the shattering of glass. Unsuspecting neighbors jumped in a brief moment of fear. Outdoors, however, the sound of giggling kids was abundant as they fled though fallen leaves then down the road in search of another house to storm.

Occasionally, an adult neighbor would shout at us and give chase, and that made throwing corn all that much more fun. And there were times the police officer from the neighboring township would patrol our neighborhood. We always knew he was coming, though – his car's engine was so loud we swore we could hear it when he started the vehicle outside his house, more than a mile away. That car was the biggest nighttime beast to avoid.

Happily, there was little cleanup involved in the aftermath of corn. The birds, helped by some small mammals, took care of that the next day.

And we had a steadfast rule: We never went throwing corn at the homes of elderly neighbors. Truly, we were good kids. Moreover, we were best kind of children of the corn.

What a cauldron of memories!

So while many of you are piling on makeup and squeezing into your expensive costumes, and some are canvassing neighborhoods for free candy, I'll be in my home, sifting through my recollections of Halloween seasons long past. I'll be perusing those not-so-grave situations of an earlier century in which I reveled in the effects of homemade hard cider. And I adored the sound of hardened corn kernels striking the side of a house.

Good times. Witch you had been there.

Author's note: Unfamiliar with the art of throwing corn? Sit a spell and cast your devilish eyes on this story from Dr. Steph Ceraso, an associate professor at the University of Virginia. She's a native of Ford City, Pa., a town, like mine, not far from Pittsburgh. Thanks, Steph!