I remember growing up in Maplewood, New Jersey and going to a Halloween party at my good friend's, Gibert. With the lights turned off and our imaginations turned wild, we stuck our hands in bowls of brains (wet spaghetti) and eyeballs (wet grapes).
Afterwards, we headed to the front porch of Frog Hall (the name of her house), and bobbed for apples ... hoping the cold water would quell our brains from the ickiness of the past hour.
The gaggle of girls dressed as Charlie Chaplin, Dorothy in the 'Wizard of Oz," Buckwheat in "The Little Rascals," a Hobo and a pumpkin. Others wore long straight bangs, and it was questionable as to whether they were supposed to Twiggy, Davey from The Monkees, Paul from The Beatles or Mick from The Rolling Stones. From a certain angle, they could have also been Florence Henderson.
My friends and I sipped cold apple cider, ate oven-hot ginger cookies ... and wondered whether any of the cute boys from Jefferson School would crash the party.
Halloween is a lot more fun when you're in 6th grade than it is now.
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