This is a bit of a strange tale. Strange because it is completely cliché (a story about candy as a communications metaphor during Halloween) and the fact that I don’t really like Reese’s all that much. But it is something that I have carried with me my whole life and figured I could share today with you on Halloween 2014.
Growing up in South Pasadena, California, the night of Halloween was the pinnacle of sugar-induced extroversion. I loved it. It was an evening of authorized socializing all throughout the neighborhood. And, like so many of you, there was that one special house. For me, it was the house in the middle of my block on Milan Ave.
The couple who owned the house would open the door to a bunch of bratty trick-or-treaters and would happily greet us, ask about our costumes, and bring out the big bowl of candy she had carefully placed in her entry way. I imagine this was a scene that had already taken place dozens of times before I arrived at her door and that repeated itself dozens of times thereafter. But when I would arrive at the door, something magical would happen.
This kind woman, who I now know was a skilled communicator in her own way, would look at me and say, “Why, I didn’t realize it was YOU!” (this would happen if it were me alone or in a gaggle of kids from the neighborhood). She would exclaim, “Well, in this case, this big bowl of just any candy simply won’t do. I saved some special “Big Reese’s” just in case my very favorite kids came by. I love you and your family so I want you to have something extra nice this Halloween.
At this point she would reach behind the door and pull from a drawer a shiny orange package of Reese’s. Not the small Halloween ones that are ubiquitous this time of year. No, she would go for the full artillery of glucose and would lovingly place in our trick-or-treat bags one of the REAL big-person-size Reese’s. Wow. A REAL, full-size, big-person candy like the ones you see at the check-out counter. The kind that parents dread because of the amount of sugar entailed. The kind that you see in commercials but only taste in bite-size quantities during Halloween. What a feeling of empowerment. What a moment of affirmation! At that moment, my friends and I knew indeed that we were special. This kind woman would give us a big smile as she put the candy in her bag and would say, “For me, you are the truly special ones.”
Later that night, my living room floor would transform into a scene where the realities of commerce would set in as candy trading (and some obligatory “Daddy tax” moments) would ensue. People would trade and swap. And every kid, inevitably, would treasure the fact that the woman down the street gave them a full-size Reese’s. We KNEW, at that point, that we had something truly special.
Not a few years later, I realized what had taken place. As an adult visiting with kids from the neighborhood it became very clear that EVERY kid that arrived at this woman’s door received a full-size Reese’s. In fact, I have no idea if she ever gave anyone the candy from the anonymous big bowl that sat behind her that night. That bowl may have just sat there for years. This kind woman had been giving out full-size candies to children – hundreds of children – for years. And each time a kid left feel
Was she being inauthentic? Was this a misleading message for the kids of my neighborhood? I think you know the truth.
And as her life concluded and we looked back on her life as a neighbor and friend, it also became clear that what she was doing was empowering the people around her. She was grateful for the families and friends that surrounded her and made her life better. And she wanted a generation of people to know that, for her at least, there was a special distinction…a boost of confidence and affection…that could help the neighborhood do great things.
So, I don’t like Reese’s. But I love the message that I got every year from the woman on my block on Milan Ave. Happy Halloween. Thanks for being the truly special ones.
