I grew up in the 70s and that means I rode a bike with no helmet, sat in the back seat of our station wagon with no booster seat, and played outside until Mom rang “the bell” for us to come in for dinner.

On Halloween, there was no bell. We were handed our treat-or-treat backs and sent out the door wearing a watch and knowing exactly what time curfew was. We were NEVER EVER late, because being late, by even one minute, meant the forfeit of our hard-earned treats. Believe me, after putting in the hours and the miles (we lived in a hilly neighborhood) we weren’t going to take any chances.

Despite what my parents might tell you, I was a pretty good kid. I didn’t egg anyone’s mailbox or toilet paper anyone’s trees. In fact, the only trick I experienced on Halloween with was played on me!

Every year, my friends and I made the two-mile trek to the house of one of the 4^th grade teachers at our elementary school. She always kept her house dark and didn’t answer the doorbell, so dozens of kids punished her by egging or papering her place until her trees looked like they were covered with snow. It was a ritual to gawk at what the older kids had done.

One year, Mrs. Tricky’s (yep, it’s a pseudonym) house was lit up like she was having a party. Every lamp was on, jack o’ lanterns flanked the front steps, and music could be heard playing inside. My friends and I were stunned.

“Go to the door,” we dared one another and it took a game of rock, paper, scissor to decide which one of us would see what Mrs. Tricky had to offer. Guess who happens to be terrible at rock, paper, scissor?

I made my way to the door, hesitating before ringing the bell. I looked back longingly to the street, where my friends giggled as they perched on the curb, and gave in to peer pressure (yep, that would happen lots more in that decade).

Mrs. Tricky opened the door right away. She wore a green dress and a smile. She held out a plastic bowl covered with a white dishtowel.

“Trick or treat?” I asked doubtfully.

“Go ahead,” she answered, still smiling and eased an inch of dishtowel away from the surface of the bowl. Her hallway was dark and I couldn’t see what was being offered, but I put my greedy hand in anyway. I felt my fingers sink into something cold, wet, and mushy.

“The brains of my bad students,” Mrs. Tricky whispered gleefully, shoved a paper towel into my treat bag, and closed her door.

When my friends asked what had happened, I told them that I had been tricked. We were stunned and we couldn’t wait for the next unsuspecting kid to ring Mrs. Tricky’s bell. I believe we set up such a long stakeout at her house that I almost missed curfew and my bag was light that year as well. It proved to be more fun to watch all the kids who had once egged this woman’s house get their comeuppance!

Good for Mrs. Tricky.

Have you ever been tricked? Have you ever tricked someone else?