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Oct. 27, 2006
Celebrating spookiness
Kids these days aren't what they used to be.
TED ROBERTS
Let me admit that Halloween is not a Jewish holiday. I suspected
as much, but just to play it safe, I asked my rabbi. He was flattered,
I could tell, because he called me by my name instead of "that
snoozer in the fifth row with the K-Mart shirt." That's his
usual reference to me from the bimah.
"No, Ted, it is not our holiday," the rabbi asserted.
Furthermore, he went on to tell me that our Chumash considers witchcraft
the second-worst feminine profession. But then, after I complimented
him on the profundity of his Yom Kippur sermon, he admitted that
there was no specific Halloween prohibition in the Talmud. Then
he lightened up and told me the only ghost story in our Bible. It's
a doozy. It's in 1 Samuel, Chapter 28, verse 7. King Saul, in disguise,
visits a roadside witch who summons up the ghost of Samuel. But
I don't want to ruin the plot. Go read.
However, I must admit there was a dark period in my youth when I
was a Halloweening hooligan and my idol was Homer Gishburg. He could
shinny up a tree with both hands – like a monkey. And in his
teeth, a patio chaise lounge. He was our leader: the visionary who
discovered that a bar of Ivory soap rubbed on fenders and hood left
an indelible stain – much better than a simple soaping of the
windshield. "What good's soaping a windshield?" said Homer.
"Twenty to 30 minutes of scrubbing and it's almost transparent
again." A wonderful, criminal mind – the envy of the neighborhood,
he was. I'll bet that today he enjoys his Halloween nights in the
federal pen in Atlanta. Kids were tougher in Homer's day:
Little Kid – dressed in a grocery sack with holes: "Hey,
gimme two of them kosher Hershey bars."
Householder: "Why should I? I love Hershey bars and I don't
even know you."
Little Kid: "Cause if you don't, I'm putting a brick through
your living room window. And it don't look brickproof to me."
Householder: "Here's two chocolate bars and a bottle of Manischiewitz
for your lovely parents. Have a great night!"
Halloween, in those wayward years, was also a profitable night for
burglars. Streets full of dark-suited folks carrying bags full of
loot. Who's gonna notice that some dark-suited folks are bigger
than others?
Well, that was then and this is now. Today, the neighborhood kids
are wearing designer goblin suits. And they have no athletic skills
(like Homer and his teeth, who could carry that chaise lounge up
a pine tree). Most of them trip over the hose I've cleverly left
on the walk up to the front door. So they're rubbing their red little
knees and whining when I suddenly fling open the door. I've got
on my wife's best witch's mask – the one she bought to protect
herself on amorous fall nights.
But sometimes I'm assigned the job of shepherding of my four-year-old
granddaughter through the spooky, mean streets of my neighborhood.
So here I am with my granddaughter and her dog, Goliath – the
size of a mule – canvassing her neighbors. I knew the dog was
gonna be a problem. "Let's leave him at home with a couple
of five-pound bags of dog food and the rib roast you cooked for
supper," I suggested to my daughter.
No – the dog wanted to go. She could tell because he was already
romping around the yard knocking down kids, grabbing their pillowcases
full of candy and eating far more than his fair share of those chewy
caramels that I love. I hated that dog. And since he'd been raised
with the same carefree "anything goes" philosophy as my
granddaughter, whatever Goliath wanted, Goliath got, including the
king-sized bed in the guest bedroom that should have been solely
mine when I visited. He didn't snore, but he tossed and turned all
night like he had a bad conscience. I think he had prostate trouble,
too. Half the night he was scratching at the bedroom door, trying
to get out.
It was my worst Halloween night ever. Me and that mongrel and my
granddaughter trying to make the rounds. Lemme tell you, the Hound
of the Baskervilles turned off a lotta frightened customers who
refused to open the door. I'd rather have stayed home scaring kids.
The three of us had our late October date for about five years.
Finally, to my relief, the dog lost interest and a couple of years
later, ditto for my granddaughter. But the old Halloweener is still
out there with granddaughter No. 2. And given the fertility of my
kids, I can look forward to a lot more Halloweens.
Ted Roberts is a nationally syndicated Jewish humorist
whose work regularly appears in the Jewish press. E-mail him at
[email protected].
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