Quality Over Quantity: The Chronicles Of Trick-Or-Treating In Backroad Ontario

I remember my childhood Halloweens like many Canadians: brisk and rainy nights, trading candy to get Coffee Crisp and wearing your costume to school. However, what most people cannot relate to is the sound of the gravel road beneath the wheels of their mother’s Volvo en route to one of six houses they will trick-or-treat at. 

Growing up in rural southwestern Ontario was one of my favourite parts of childhood, especially when it came to how my brother and I celebrated Halloween. 

Due to my parents not wanting their children to miss out on one of the most anticipated and commercialized holidays of the year — and credit to my road for being one of the two houses on it — every Oct. 31, at around 5 p.m, my family would leave a bowl of candy on the porch and pile into our car to drive to our parents’ friends houses to go trick-or-treating. 

The journey to each house was never long, no more than 10 minutes. It was longer when my dad didn’t want to get the car dirty with gravel. Each house had its special knack to it. 

Our first stop was always Mrs. Talks-a-lot. She would give us kids a cookie and my mother a cup of tea and invite us all to sit at her kitchen table to hear the latest and greatest gossip of our small town. After 30 minutes (some years, it was more), she ushered us out the door with enough candy to fill our bags half-full so we could continue our night.  

At some point in the night, we would stop at the local home builder’s house, who, every time, without fail, would see my dad offer him a beer. There, we would sit at his kitchen table while his wife continued talking to my mom as he would guess our costumes, sipping his beer. He got my brother’s Wolverine costume on the first try but got stumped by my black and yellow face paint and my pair of wings — evidently a butterfly. Despite his horrific guessing skills, at least we could always count on him for multiple full-size chocolate bars. 

There are some houses I can’t remember as well as the others. The names of the people or the candy they gave me is beyond me. However, one of these houses is unforgettable due to one specific thing: their airplane hanger. There I was, beyond the bridge of the kitchen table, in one of my costumes; I was in an airplane hangar in the middle of rural Ontario, getting a tour of a helicopter. I can’t even remember what candy they gave me at the door. 

Other houses felt more like an obligation, not to my parents, but to the neighbours who expected our appearance every year. They would wait for our car’s headlights to roll down their driveway and swing the door open before we could even say hello (the first time I said trick-or-treat was when I moved into the city in eighth grade; no one in the countryside says it). 

One of the families we knew growing up had three boys around my older brother’s age. Their mother, the poor woman, rejoiced when I would come to show her my costume, so much so that she would take my photo and give me extra candy. Her sons were usually my home’s only trick-or-treaters. 

My favourite babysitter lived five minutes away by car; she was a high school student and the daughter of a dairy farmer. Their house had the best-carved pumpkins by her artist younger brother, but their intimidating mother would answer the door and give us plain potato chips. 

The last house on the list was the only house we could walk to. My parents would park the Volvo in the driveway, and we would walk to our neighbour’s house. He lived alone but had every animal under the sun. We were the only kids that would come to his door, so he always bought candy just for us. This visit was always a mystery with what new animal he had. One year, it was a turtle and his Siamese cats. Another year was his new baby chicks. Once, it was an entire litter of black lab puppies. His house always had an off-putting scent of fur, but it was the warmest and most welcoming place to go trick-or-treating. 

Although I can’t recommend a drive-by Halloween to any child, I wouldn’t take my experience back for anything because of the quality of neighbours I had in my small town and the fact I never had to wear my winter coat under my costumes. 

• canada
• childhood
• costumes
• Expereinces
• halloween
• life
• personal essay
• trick-or-treating