Fa La La La La La BOO!

It was 1969, on a twisting rural road that wound between the logging town of Everett, Washington, and the tiny fishing and ferry-dock community of Mukilteo.

I was seventeen, an adult in my own mind, a year away from graduating and joining the Women's Army Corps. On a dark Hallowe'en night, I preferred to be home reading or talking on the phone to friends my own age, turning up our noses at how recently we'd been out in the dark childishly begging for sweets. You can imagine how I felt about being detailed to shepherd my little brothers and sisters around to collect sugar loot in the dark.

Mom had one hard rule; if we could argue her out of anything, we could have or do it. So far, none of us had ever won, but it didn't stop us from trying.

"Mom!" It was the bleat of the put-upon child, no matter what age. I offered my most telling argument: "I can't be seen with those little brats --."

"You want to be grounded for the next month? They're Your Own Flesh And Blood. You'll go watch them or you won't get out of this house until you're at the recruiting station."

In the vernacular of the 21st century: FAIL. Dark saw me grumbling along at the tail of a gang of excited siblings of various sizes. All of them were swinging big paper shopping bags and excitedly planning their assault on the next lighted house, or examining the take from the last victim.

Mom hadn't said a thing about not soaping windows. I had a bar of Ivory soap -- particularly thick and sticky when smeared on glass -- tucked in my purse. If I had to suffer for what an adult made me do, I'd get back at some others of the grown-up tribe the best way I could.

The neighborhood had grown since I was small enough to go candy-grabbing myself, stretching out through the forests along the beaches and back into the wooded hills. Large houses -- luxurious and friendly during the day -- now seemed like hulking black castles, hidden at the end of dark lanes lined with eerie rustling trees. Trendy ranch-houses stepped up steep hills like Aztec hill towns. Miles of doors offered the chance for heavy sugar over-loads or, for the frugal kids, school lunch desserts for a month.

The little buggers would want to walk down every bend in the side-roads to get at any house that even hinted that it might be hoarding chocolate. It meant we'd be out for what would at least seem like hours. This was before the teen-age rage for threatening suicide, but I was feeling like I wanted to throw myself into a steep forest gully to get out of this job. Only the chance to slip around the corner of a house to slather a side window with soap while the candy brigade was shrieking at the front door made the whole operation a little more bearable.

On a long stretch between legs of the neighborhood, I started humming to myself. It's a habit I have when I'm busy or bored. The theme doesn't matter. I have a poor memory for tunes or words, so I often find myself producing an endless loop of "Dixie" or Christmas Carols. This time, the song that came out was "Deck The Halls."

Suddenly one of the little sisters began mumbling the words. I raised my voice and encouraged the others to join in. They all knew it. Full of energy from the first bites of their booty, they happily bawled the holiday tune, their squeaky voices even sounding sweet in the moonlit night. The next door opened, and a couple stepped out onto the porch, candy in hand. As we caroled our way up their front walk, their faces in the porch light went blank with confusion.

The Hallowe'en part of the exchange was completely traditional, from the happy yell of "Trick or Treat!" to the chorus of "Thank you!" as we left. The couple even gave me a Snickers bar, big kid and all. Maybe I looked like I needed it.

"All right, gang," I said, unwrapping my snack. "Jingle Bells!"

Without hesitation, they broke into song, marching away swinging their bags in time. I turned to the couple and said, with the straightest face possible:

"The Everett Junior Caroling Society wishes to thank you for enjoying their performance."

"Oh, of course!" said the couple. "Lovely! They sing so well. How sweet."

As they stood waiting for the next gang of trick-or-treaters, the couple didn't look as though they'd properly filed what they'd just heard in their own heads. The other kids just stared at us.

I decided I wasn't going to soap any more windows. I threw the bar into the next clump of bushes. After all, this way I'd be there to see the victims' reactions -- and they'd thank me for it.