Iannuccilli: I Was Always a Hobo
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Columnist
Iannuccilli: I Was Always a Hobo
They ring the bell, and we swing the door open to the squeaks of “Trick-or-Treat.”
Because we live near Roger Williams College, we get a number of undergraduates stepping up to fill their coffers, some costumed, most not. One late evening, as we dimmed the lights thinking the kids were long gone, there came a knock. Standing there were four large young men ‘adorned’ with cooks uniforms. “What are you guys supposed to be?”
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLAST“Cooks.”
“You are cooks! Don’t you work in that restaurant right down the street?”
“Well … uh, yeah … but.”
“OK, here you go.”
In my early years, when fall and the cool, dark nights descended on our Mt. Pleasant neighborhood, we thought of Halloween. We were excited to get out of school and get costumed up, roaming about with friends, candy spinning in our heads. Halloween was an evening of enthusiasm, excitement, and expectation. In the days, maybe weeks, before, the questions were “What are you going to be for Halloween?” or “What will the trick be if we don’t get a treat?”
Our costumes were homemade; a ghost with a sheet over the head and eyelets, a scarecrow with straw tucked in the sleeves of an old shirt, an old lady with a housedress, a hobo (my choice), fashioned with a tattered, oversized coat and a fire-charred cork smeared on my face.
Wandering along with pillowcases ready, off we went with a group of friends that gathered under the street light. The cold night air was vibrant with kids. Gibbering chatter filled the streets. We hoofed from door to door through the shadows with street and porch lights guiding our way.
Three-decker houses made it easier. Up the rear stairs we lumbered, our loads weightier at each landing. People welcomed us with a smile, a pleasant greeting and a handful of candy ... Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups, M&M’s, Mr. Goodbar, Hershey Chocolates, Charleston Chew, and Butterfingers. The neighborhood was thrumming with the sights and sounds of kids and the aromas of candy.
We never came up empty, so there was never a trick to deploy but for wax. Except for the slingshot or a bean blower, candlewax was the most dangerous weapon we ever carried, not to light the way, but to wax car and storefront windows. And wax we did, so much on the store windows that you could not see in, or out.
At the end of the evening, I shuffled the three flights of stairs to our tenement lugging a full pillowcase by my grandmother’s second floor where she was standing and quipped, “Edward, you must-a be tired inna the legs.”
The muscles of my tormented face were frozen by the charcoal, but I was able to smile.
What a night!
Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues" can be found here.