Trick or Treat! 
Halloween - Fifties Style

by Felice Prager



The excitement was uncontrollable. We had made our best attempts all day in school to focus on our arithmetic, geography, history, science, health, and spelling assignments, but it was difficult. In those days, our teachers allowed us to wear our costumes to school. 

We even had a small parade on the blacktop before lunch. Mothers came to school with younger siblings who weren't old enough to go to school in carriages and strollers. In the late afternoon, our class mother and several volunteers visited us with a treats for a classroom Halloween party. Yet, we watched the clock tick slowly, knowing that once the clock hit 3 PM, we would be ready for the best night of the year.

In our neighborhood, we were permitted to go without parental supervision. The world was a quieter, less suspicious place, and as long as we stayed in the neighborhood, we were allowed to go without parents lagging behind us. In addition, there were enough older siblings among the group to keep an eye out for the younger children. The older brothers and sisters were given rules and boundaries where we were permitted to go. "As far as Abbott Boulevard," they were told. "Don't cross Route Five. Hold your sister's hand when you cross streets. And don't bother Mrs. Sinatra this year."

The rumor was that Frank Sinatra's mother lived a few blocks away from us in a small brick home, though we never saw Frank or his mother. We based our belief on a doormat that said, "Sinatra" in block letters on top with "Go Away!" written beneath it. Despite the fact that Sinatra wasn't an uncommon last name in the North Jersey town where we lived, we were convinced the home was occupied by Frank's mom. We figured Frank bought the doormat for his mother. We assumed he had an incredibly sophisticated sense of humor. "He must fly her out to Hollywood on his private jet in the middle of the night," we thought. It was all possible and very believable to us at the time though none of it was based on even an ounce of proof.

No one in my neighborhood bought costumes; I don't even remember if costumes were sold back then in the late 1950's and early 1960's. It would have been an extravagance my family couldn't afford. Some parents made costumes for their kids. In my case, I had planned my costume months in advance of Halloween. 

Each year I planned on being Miss America. I planned on wearing a bathing suit 
and flip flops - I didn't own high heels at the time and couldn't fit into my mother's size "8 double A with its triple A heel." I also had a hand-made sash that said "Miss America" draped over another sash that said "Miss New Jersey." I made a tiara out of tin foil, and when I tried the costume on, my father sang, "Here she comes - Miss America" as I walked down a pretend runway in our living room. 

When the weather dipped into the forties, my mother finally convinced me that I would "catch my death of cold" wearing a bathing suit. I was unable to convince her that I could effectively ward off all germs with my winter jacket over my bathing suit. 

Each year, I wound up going as a hobo. Being a hobo was always a fallback costume for those who didn't prepare, weren't terribly creative, or just didn't want to put effort into a costume. I was always ready to be glamorous and disappointed that I was forced to be mundane. Being a hobo, however, made it easier to carry the candy --- on the end of our hobo's stick - a broom handle my mother unscrewed each year for me to sling over my shoulder. Among family photo albums my mom painstakingly prepared, each year there are pictures of me in a bathing suit with my Miss America sash draped across me in one photo. Then there is another photo of me - with the same face and a hint of tears - dressed as a hobo.

Decked out in our well-planned costumes for Halloween and excited that the weather was clear with no chance of rain and not too cool to go trick-or-treating, we carried old pillowcases or handled bags saved especially for candy collection in one hand and a box given to us by our teachers in the other to collect for UNICEF. We had it all planned. We would ring the doorbell, then in unison we'd sing, "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat." That was considered "fresh" back then. In reality, we planned on saying that, but when the door was answered, we just said, "Trick or treat!" We didn't want people to think we were delinquents.

We were never given a curfew. The neighborhood was small and if our parents wanted to find us, all they had to do was drive down a half dozen streets looking for a mob of miniature hobos. I was not the only child who started out in one unrealistic costume and ended up in another.

When we ran out of houses or the younger children started complaining about sore feet or that they were cold and tired, we went home. We emptied our bags onto the kitchen table and put our Unicef boxes where we wouldn't forget them to bring to school the next day. Our parents didn't have to inspect each item. Each year there was a homemade popcorn ball made by Mrs. Peck and a candied apple made by Mrs. Barth. There was gum, Hershey's kisses, and wrapped sourballs given to us by Mr. Stadler, a senior citizen who lived near us. 

Mr. Stadler never remembered to buy Halloween candy since his children were grown and he lived alone, but he always managed to find something to give us. I don't remember the other assorted items. It didn't matter. We sat around the kitchen table and shared our loot. Then, way past our normal bedtime, we climbed into bed and planned our costumes and antics for the next year.


more articles by  Felice Prager

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