Sugar Blitz

I tried to unload all the candy last night. I really did. But times are changing, Trick-or-Treat appears to be terminally ill, and about eight pounds of leftover candy sits in a basket by my front door.

Poor little five-year-old Katy from down the street ("Super Woman," she corrected me when I commented on the utter coolness of her Super Girl costume. Right-O) rang the bell once, but I got to there slowly. She had already given up and headed for more fertile hunting grounds when I opened the door. I chased her down the driveway in my slippers, breathing like Darth Vader, the basket of individually wrapped high fructose corn syrup in hand. It was probably the spookiest moment of her night--pursued by a wild-eyed, desperate candy pusher in pajama pants. To her credit, she did not scream in terror or burst into tears as I shoved Skittles and KitKats into her small plush loot bag with both hands. My plan was to keep her parents engaged in small talk so that I could cram another pound or two of Heath Bars into the top of the bag while we exchanged pleasantries. Finally, my conscience got the better of me. I let the conversation idle and SuperWomanKaty staggered away with enough candy to keep her hopped up until Valentines Day.

The doorbell rang a total of six times last night. Small clumps of unenthusiastic youngsters stood on the stoop. Not one of them carried a pillow case for raking in the big haul. They walked at a leisurely pace between houses instead of running full-steam to cover more territory--so different from the glory days of trick-or-treating. Oh, we knew how to rake in the sugar, back in the day. We kept a mental map of who gave out full-sized candy bars (make a beeline), who gave out toothbrushes (bypass) and ran with our pillow cases slung over our shoulders like Santa's pack. We knocked on doors until we couldn't go another step, not even for Lemonheads.

The real fun began after we got home. My sister and I would dump our haul out on the pink shag carpet in our room. Aaah . . . bliss and greed did battle in our young souls. Sorting the candy was a solemn and important job. We classified the loot into a rigid hierarchy. Lowest in the pecking order? Pencils and plastic spiders--immediately tossed. Then we began making separate piles of sweets according to their desirability. Peanut butter taffy in orange and black wrappers made up the lowest rung, along with the flat suckers. Next came the Bazooka and Double Bubble . . . and so on until we reached the top. Our bargaining power for the next week (or until New Years if you were my sister. She probably still has Halloween candy from 1971 stashed away somewhere in her room) rested in the "power" pile. Snickers, 100,000 Grand, and Baby Ruth and Reeses and such. (Wax lips had a coveted, protected status, and were never included in the negotiations.) We wheeled and dealed, trading candy and suppressing our generous impulses quickly. Round One ended at bedtime, but subsequent rounds would continue as long as the candy held out, in my case an additional \fifteen hours.

That's how we did it, back in the Wonder Years. This year, I couldn't get rid of the candy in spite of my "sugar-blitz" tactics. What's a girl to do with the leftovers? Come over and we'll play Candyland, loser takes home the candy. All of it.