Tough to be a kid at Halloween these days

When I was a child growing up in Ohio, Halloween was usually very cold, and often snowy. As a result, it really didn't matter what kind of costume you chose, because whatever it was would be covered by a winter coat, leggings, boots, gloves, a hood, mittens and a scarf. No one ever saw what a "natural" princess I made except my brothers and sisters, who'd figured out pretty quickly how to just throw some kind of cape over their coats and keep their eyes on the prize -- all the candy you could stuff in your mouth before your mother took it away.

After trick-or-treating, the whole family would trudge through the snow to a little neighborhood park, where there would be a bonfire, and all the kids would have warm cider and doughnuts, and compare capes. (Our parents had a great time, too, because their "cider" being not so much apple as it was grape, if you know what I'm saying.) We'd stay until we could no longer feel our feet -- for various reasons -- when we'd walk home, and we kids would sit on the floor and pour our candy into a pile. Then, negotiations would begin.

"I'll give you three Chuckles for your Bit-O-Honeys."

"Hell, no! I'll give you my Caramel Creams for your Wax Lips."

"OK, but I want your red Lik-M-Aid, too. And, do you want to trade your Zagnut for my Sky Bar?"

"Wait! I'll give you four Chuckles for your Zagnut!"

"Forget it. Give me your Hershey Bar, and you can have all of my Candy Bracelets."

"It's a deal. Do you want to trade your Wax Bottles for my Jawbreakers?"

"Hold it! You can have all of my Chuckles for your Jawbreakers!"

"Nobody wants your stinking Chuckles!"

What wonderful bonding that was. (Didn't you just love Lik-M-Aid? Honestly, the happiest moments of my childhood were those spent reading Archie and Veronica comic books while my finger turned red from dipping it into that little envelope of red-dyed sugar. One Halloween I traded almost everything I had for about 43 packets of Lik-M-Aid. I didn't sleep till Christmas.)

Nowadays, Halloween is different. First of all, even the idea of a neighborhood bonfire puts today's parents into a swoon. Why, what if something caught fire? What if a child goes too near it? What about the smoke pollution? What if we violate a housing ordinance? Why, we could be fined!

Secondly, because every parent has become a basket case about letting their young kids go outside after dark, they've started trick-or-treating earlier and earlier. I think this year it's right after breakfast.

And, of course, every child who hasn't yet had a GPS chip surgically implanted in his or her neck will be closely followed, monitored and shadowed by a "concerned" parent, because who knows what kind of sick perverts will be lurking around every corner just waiting for a poor innocent waif to come along. Naturally, the children have been sternly and repeatedly warned, admonished and frightened to the point of catatonia about only visiting houses where they know the residents. Some neighborhoods have even coordinated little ribbons to be put on their doorknobs as being part of the "approved" houses.

(You know what I think? I think we adults should start acting like adults and give those warnings and admonishments instead to any sick perverts who even think about coming anywhere near our children. Why don't we scare them into near catatonia, by resolving that if one is ever caught, he will have a little "face time" with parents before he gets anywhere near a courtroom, where he will then find another parent as judge, and 12 more as jurors, who will unanimously vote to beat the ever-lovin' crap out of him daily for the rest of his life, which will be extremely short!)

Anyway, all the "approved" houses also have lists of "approved" treats to give out, because God forbid a child should come home with anything sugary, unhealthy, cavity-causing or obesity-related, like -- gasp! -- candy.

I went to the grocery yesterday, where there was a display labeled "Halloween Treats," which was filled with -- and I am totally not making this up -- little baggies of baby carrots! Whoa. If I were one of the kids out there tonight, I think I might be desperate enough to figure out a way to lose my mom, slip out of my ankle bracelet, skip all the beribboned homes, and head for the nearest "unapproved" house I could find ... even for a package of Chuckles.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.