Growing up, my family was not composed of Halloween People. Each year, my mom seemed to change her mind about whether or not Halloween was even okay to celebrate or if it was, you know, the devil’s holiday. Some years we did trick-or-treat, but never with fancy costumes procured weeks in advance. Instead, we used what we had around the house. Shepherds were easy to do, if you had a bathrobe. Cowboys, if you had a bandana. Put on a nice dress and a tiara and, boom, you’re a princess. Other years, we went to church-sponsored alternatives called “Harvest Festival” or some variation thereof. Kids dressed up, they played games, they got candy. Who were they fooling? It was Halloween. But this was the extent of our Halloween celebrating. I don’t even remember going to a pumpkin patch. “Did we ever carve pumpkins?” I asked my mom. “I thought we did,” she said. “But maybe that was just with your younger sisters.” Because of their general apathy towards the holiday, last week I was surprised to hear my parents reminisce about “the old Halloween parties” they used to host in their basement. “Remember when Dick Schneider came as a baby? He was only wearing a diaper,” my dad said to my mom. “No,” she said, “he wore a bonnet, too.” My parents have always been sociable people. They like hosting. They host Bible studies, family reunions, barbecues. Even my wedding was at their house. But a Halloween party? With Dick Schneider wearing only a diaper? “Mom went as a football player one year,” my dad says. “And I was a cheerleader.” 

Because we weren’t Halloween People, I did not become a Halloween Person. In my 20s, I would dread the end of October. I liked parties, but I didn’t like dressing up. Some people think it’s fun, but I considered it an extra task, an added stressor. I followed in the footsteps of my childhood and went as things I threw together from my closet. With baby powder in my hair, I was a Golden Girl. With a cut-out “A” and a bonnet I borrowed from a friend, I was Hester Prynne. One year, I reused the 80s bridesmaid dress I’d found in high school at a Goodwill and had only worn once, to Homecoming. Other years, when no parties were to be found, or when I had shows, Halloween just came and went. 

For a few years in Los Angeles, my husband and I lived in a large house in Highland Park with two other married couples. One year, one of the couples was invited to what they described as a very cool Halloween party. We (the other two couples) had been hoping we would also be welcome by proxy, but apparently it was rather exclusive, the invitation was not extended, and we were slightly miffed. Therefore, we decided to throw our own Halloween party. 

The problem with our Halloween party is that my husband and I are comedians. When you are a comedian in Los Angeles, you know a lot of people. If we had invited a bunch of comedians to a random party in, say, mid-August, I don’t think we would’ve had a huge showing. But since it was Halloween, and since no other comedians were hosting a Halloween party, our party became the party. People whose names none of us knew attended this party (I guess that makes it a rager?). So many comedians squeezed on our balcony that someone said it was liable to break off and crash, a tragedy on one hand but also ensuring more spots at shows for the rest of us remaining, living comedians. I remember people arriving at 1am. ONE A.M. 

This party became larger than I think any of us wanted it to be, and I felt partially to blame, what with all the comedians. A point in the night was reached when we all wanted to go to bed, especially the couple who’d returned from the “cool party” and were horrified at the state of our house. I was elected to be the ender of the festivities, and so, around 2am, I told semi-famous and open-mic comedians alike to please leave our home. This was the year Westworld was in its heyday, and our friend Simon had dressed up as the character Evan Rachel Wood played, with the blond hair and the old-timey dress. He kept saying, “I am Westworld!” 

When all our guests were gone, leaving dozens of empty beer cans and, mistakenly, a large baggie of weed, we looked at our floor, which was caked in dirt. We cleaned the house that very night, one couple taking the floor, the other taking charge of dishes and trash and other paraphernalia. And after that, I had no interest in ever celebrating Halloween again. 

But last year, when my son was two and a half, we took him to one of those big pop-up Halloween stores, and he picked out a baby shark costume for himself, and he trick-or-treated for the first time. Late October in Wisconsin is a time of year when it could be in the 70s or it could already be snowing, but that afternoon was lovely and crisp, and everyone was happy to be outside, knowing it could be the last day of its kind for many months. 

It was my first trick-or-treating as a parent, and I was shocked by just how many houses were prepared for candy-seeking children. I expected every couple houses to be dark, to be playing dead, but the few houses that didn’t have anyone standing at the ready with a bowl of treats still had left candy for the taking with a sign that said, “Take two!” People were friendly, cheerful, happy to be giving away Snickers to my son, happy to be spreading joy and cavities to the children in the neighborhood. One old woman had moved an armchair to her front door so she could just stay parked there, and she gave out quart-size ziploc bags of multiple candies to each kid. The time she spent! The money! She was delighted. In addition to candy, one couple had a cooler of beer on their front lawn, and so treats were given to the adults as well. “This is so beautiful,” I told my husband. “There’s no way this is the devil’s holiday.” 

This year, my son will be a construction worker. A friend bought a bee costume for our baby daughter. I will be myself, because I still hate dressing up. But I wonder, as our kids get older, will the joy I felt last year continue to grow? Will we, someday, become Halloween People?