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Devil of an angel

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Contributed by: Becca Whitnall on 10/30/2007

I remember the year my sister dressed as an angel for Halloween. To most who knew her, the angel costume seemed appropriate.

"Seemed" being the key word here... She was the good child. The responsible one. The tidy one. The kind and sensitive and sharing one... until it came to Halloween, and specifically, Halloween candy.

You see, in days of yore, when I was a wee one and razors in apples were more of a mythical threat than a reality and before cyanide had ever been found in Tylenol capsules, kids still trick-or-treated. I suppose they still do but, at my house, anyway, the numbers grow fewer each year.

And while I'm impressed with all the trunk-or-treat events, carnivals, hay rides and mazes organizations have planned for children at Halloween -it's enough to run down even the greatest of sugar highs -I can't help but be a little sad that actual trick-or-treating seems to be dying off.

It's not just the costumes -both gory or girlie, spooky or sparkly- and candy they miss out on, but all the traditions surrounding it: the anticipation of getting home and dumping the bag to examine the booty; waiting patiently while parents inspect it (was it any coincidence the stuff they confiscated because it might be tainted happened to be their favorites?) and then sorting and trading Tootsie Pops for Pixie Stix.

And, well, this is where my sister's deception comes into play. My dear, sweet, angelic sister wouldn't cheat in the swapping nor steal from others' stashes. No. She was far more despicable. While my brother and I, being of little to no self control snuck chocolate until our bellies hurt, Tria would wait. And wait. And wait. Deliberately she would measure out her bounty to make it last.

What was wrong with her? Didn't she know kids aren't supposed to have any will power? Well, yes. She knew alright. But she plotted and waited. And then, when Karl and I had finished off the very last one of our Smarties, she would strike. Out would come her collection and slowly she would unwrap a snack size Butterfinger before taking torturously small bite after bite. Pavlov would be proud of how just the crinkle of a wrapper made us drool. And then she'd walk away, knowing precisely how many chunks of chocolate she had left.

Angel, my-you-know-what!

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