My earliest trick-or-treat memory was when at the age of three my Mom dressed me up as mini- Santa Claus including makeshift beard stretched from cotton balls attached with Scotch tape and a big jelly belly of rolled up winter scarves. In full action mode, pillowcase slung over my back, we were off on an incredible spooky adventure. With my two older sisters in tow, we trekked miles through our neighborhood and beyond gathering our massive bounty of sweet treat treasures. Upon returning home we dumped our overflowing goody bags scattering their contents on our groovy green shag carpet. Admiring its luscious beauty we longed to roll around in our candy crush as if we were the greedy Three Little Pigs in a luxurious chocolate mud bath. Our own personal pots of child's gold. Eyes wide as the moon, we stared salivating over the mouth watering deliciousness of every variety of snack bar, Sweet Tarts, Smarties, Pixie Sticks, gross Necco Wafers, caramels, candy necklaces, wax bottles of drinkable goo and the occasional sad box of raisins or plastic encased popcorn ball. No rocks.
The day after Halloween, stuffing my face with Snickers bars and Jolly Ranchers, I manically rode my tricycle on our front porch for thirty minutes like the little boy from The Shining, "Redrum! Redrum!" My energy level measured Breaking Bad, "meth addict" on the uncontrollable kid scale. This was soon followed by collapsing into a long sugar induced slumber while watching Sesame Street. C-is for cookie, C- is for coma. Candy wrappers littered our living room like the driveway of a Dixie trailer park. Next thing I remember was slowly waking up with sticky orange drool running down my chin. My stomach felt like it had been gut checked by Ronda Rousey and I had a Tootsie Roll lollipop suspended in my ponytail. So once a year let your mischievous monsters and ghostly goblins imagine they inherited Willy Wonka's factory and let it rain M&M's and Skittles. The memories are sure to haunt them forever.