Back in the day, neighborhood trick-or-treating was a kind of kid's science.
The goal was to get the biggest haul. And to do that, kids had to know the best houses for candy and hit them early. The savvy kids knew the Martins handed out the most. The Gilberts handed out the best. The Cluppers handed out apples — that kind of Halloween malpractice was known to every kid in the neighborhood in five minutes.
There were rules. You had to go in a group and when you hit a house, you had to yell trick-or-treat, then stand cutely while the adults inspected your costumes before they handed out candy. The minute the door closed, it was a full-out run to the next house.
Adults had rules, too. The bigger the kid, the more unqualified that kid was to trick-or-treat. An 18-year-old kid was expected to escort young ones, not trick-or-treat himself.
There was also the perennial decision. Should you, in contradiction of your parents' orders, go to the next neighborhood, the scary neighborhood, where you didn't know any of the kids, but, hey, you might get a bigger haul?
This could be problematic. Not necessarily for danger (although, you were warned), but because you might meet up with an annoyed young mother whose baby woke up when you pounded on the door. Never pleasant. Or worse, the parent who asked if you were from the neighborhood. That was really against the rules and you could expect precious few treats.
The worst mistake to make was hitting the good places late. They always ran out of candy and handed out quarters. This was as bad as an apple.
When that happened, it was time to go home and dump the booty out on the bedroom floor. Sort the good stuff from the bad stuff. Eat the good stuff. Trade the bad stuff. Generosity was not necessarily expected.
