Halloween – there and then; here and now

Here we are again. Another October, with russet-golden leaves coating pavements, parks, avenues and riverside walks in mellow autumn hues. Sunday, October 29^th. That’s today. The clocks have just gone back, and the scary-creepy-scary day is almost upon us. The fancy dress party day. The horror movie-watching day. Scream day.

Yup, it’s Halloween time again!

Or perhaps I should say it’s All Hallow’s Eve? All Souls? All Saints? The Day of the Dead? El Dia de Los Muertos? Okay, so some of those days are technically on November 1^st or 2^nd, but let’s not get pedantic here.

Ah, Halloween, my love! The smell of candle smoke and spicy cookies and damp piles of autumn leaves; the sight of crescent moons, and stars blinking between gnarled tree branches; the sound of boots wading through leaves like ocean waves …

I’m actually feeling rather nostalgic today, in case you hadn’t guessed. The planet continues to turn on its axis, dragging its eight billion inhabitants along with it, some of them privileged and carefree, others devastated, stranded in war-torn corners of the world where Halloween will be the very last thing on their minds … and yet here am I, feeling nostalgic. Almost feel guilty.

But let’s not go down that road. Not the war-torn one. Not right now, right here, on this mellow autumnal afternoon as I sit here typing away, looking out of my kitchen window at the falling leaves, remembering Halloweens past.

1970s, Vienna. My childhood. The American International School, better known as AIS. Halloween was a big thing there. I loved it. I’d go for sleepovers at my friends’ houses, where kiddies’ parties would be held every year. We’d dress up in our goulish clothes and put paint on our childish faces, and traipse out into the autumn evening, where there always seemed to be a moon gleaming above us. We’d go knocking on the doors of other houses in the expatriate complex, calling out ‘Trick or Treat!’ to the smiling home owner who’d open the door and immediately hand over bags of goodies, or perhaps offer a plateful of candy for us to help ourselves to. Occasionally there would be no edible treats, but instead a few coins pressed into our eager childish hands.

Swing forward a few years, and my family and I have moved to England. I’m a teenager now. Missing Vienna and my AIS friends dreadfully. Missing Halloween. Because the thing is, back then no one bothered about Halloween in England. Or at least not in Lancastrian Preston, that old cotton mill town tucked away in the drizzly North West of the country. Don’t get me wrong, of course they’d heard of Halloween, they just didn’t do it.

When my brother and I tried to go trick or treating on that first Anglo-Saxon Halloween back in the mid-seventies, we were greeted at half-opened doors with a mixture of blank, confused, suspicious, or downright irritated stares. We then tried, ever so apologetically, to explain how we’d avoid playing tricks on them if they gave us some treats. (Put like that, I suppose it did sound rather menacing.) We emphasised how popular the custom was amongst Americans. ‘Yeah, well it would be, wouldn’t it,’ a mean middle-aged man said to us on that first English Halloween, adding in an even gruffer voice, ‘They’re all bonkers out there,’ before shutting the door in our faces.

I do at least recall one old dear who listened intently while we attempted to explain, yet again, why we had rung her bell and were standing in her doorway wearing weird black outfits and begging for sugary treats. ‘Ah, I see,’ she smiled at us, evidently warming to these two curious, non-Prestonian teenagers. ‘Hang on a tick, lovies.’ So off she disappeared, promptly reappearing a minute later bearing two generous slices of Lancashire parkin – that dark, heavy, sticky speciality of the region that we both hated. But better at least than hostile stares or orders to bugger off.

The following year we didn’t bother with Halloween. I mean, really, was it bloody worth it? But later at night, as I tried to sleep but couldn’t, I heard the clanging of rubbish bins being kicked around and overturned. The next morning our neighbourhood pavements were strewn not with golden autumn leaves, but foul-smelling litter. Were the local skinheads beginning to wise up to Halloween tricks?

Fast forward a good many years, and it’s now October 1992. Yet another move to another country, this time Poland, land of my father’s birth. By now I’m married with a six-year-old daughter who adores Halloween, and a six-month-old son who gurgles and coos at the paper stars and moons and witches broomsticks that I’ve cut out of coloured paper and hung up on the walls of our modest flat near the Vistula river. It’s my kids’ first Halloween in the beautiful historic city of Kraków and I want to make it special for them. But has anyone heard of Halloween round here? Nie. Not a single ghost, skeleton, skull, mask or wizard or pumpkin in sight.

Ah – but wait! We did eventually manage to track down a couple of pumpkins at a vegetable stall in the local market near our flat, albeit wonky and misshapen. The moustachioed stall holder viewed us dubiously when we said that we’d like to buy the less misshapen one please.

‘What difference does the shape make?’ he scoffed at us. ‘It’ll taste the same whether it’s round, oval, square or hexagonal.’

I tried to explain that we weren’t interested in actually eating the pumpkin, we just wanted to scoop out the insides and carve a eerie face into the rind and then put a candle inside it.

The guy looked at us as though we were stark staring mad, then shoved the pumpkin into our hands, took our money, short changed us (which we only noticed later) and muttered something to his fellow-stall holders on either side of him. As we walked away, we felt the disbelieving stares of the entire market upon us.

Take a spin a further few years down the road, and word in Poland is at last beginning to spread. No, not about the crazy English family who bought pumpkins to set fire to rather than to eat, but rather, about the custom of Halloween itself. The Poles were catching on to this new import, together with Valentines Day and piped Western Christmas muzak and traffic jams and graffiti.

And now, three decades later, Halloween is all over the place. Poland, America, England … you name it, you’ve got it. The ancient festival has now evolved into yet another seasonal celebration, hogging weeks and weeks of build-up to the Big Scary Event. Which is just two days away. I’m quite excited, actually. Juvenile habits stick.

So here I am today, October 29th 2023, thinking about Halloween as I sit here by my laptop. Here I am, wondering what take-away meal to get on Tuesday evening when my grown-up daughter will join me; what horror movie we should watch, wondering if I’ve got enough candles and nite lites in. Browsing through old photos and diary entries of Halloweens Past. Gazing at the burnished autumn colours in my garden. Such a beautiful, nostalgic festival, even if it is all about darkness and cemeteries and ghosts of the dead.

Halloween. Weird and wonderful. Scary and silly. Shocking and pagan. Solemn and Catholic.

It takes all sorts, right?