Halloween Faux Pas

We may have had 50 or so kids come and go from the front door. I never know what to expect. Sometimes I have far too much candy; other times I have to be stingy and say "One piece" or just drop one miniature Tootsie Roll in their bags like a sugar-miser. This year we estimated fairly well. I only had a few left in my big bowl.

Of those 50 or so kids, I spoke to very few other than the standard "Happy Halloween" or "Ohhh, very scary monster" or whatever. I said hello to the toddler boy and his mom who live at the end of our cul-de-sac, asked her where she got his flannel Frankenstein outfit and how he was handling the evening. Other than that, I only really addressed one mom. This is what I asked: "Now, where is it you live?" I didn't recognize the dark-haired princess in front of me who was waiting for a Snickers bar. "Um..." the mom gestured with her flashlight to point directly behind where she was standing, "right there." It was the house directly across the street. They are our across-the-street neighbors, and I managed to pick them, just them, to ask where they live. I said something like, "Oh, my, she has grown up so much I hardly recognize her! How old are you now, honey?" This attempt at distraction did not account for the fact that the mom was standing right there. She can't have changed that much in a year.

They keep to themselves, and maybe we do, too. I try to respect people's privacy. If they don't want to socialize, I try not to push it. They've never really made many overtures so we haven't, either. Maybe we're both trying too hard to respect the other person's "clues." Maybe she really wants to be known? I don't know. All I know is that I was pretty embarrassed to look this woman in the eye and realize that I don't know her at all, not one bit, yet I've lived directly across the street from her for six years.

This is American Suburbia. It seems there are two extremes--either the neighborhood has block parties and cookouts and organize Christmas socials and cookie exchanges and progressive dinners; or alternately people drive into their garages, hit the button on the garage door opener, and hole themselves in to watch TV. Or maybe they rush back out for kids' lessons or games. In those cases, it's hard to know and be known. What really goes on behind closed doors? Are we suburban dwellers all like that show "Desperate Housewives," with secrets and escapades of all kinds going on in our four-bedroom family homes?

I don't know. I can tell you there isn't much going on here. The dog is chasing around an empty plastic juice bottle, I'm thinking about what to fix the kids for lunch, and I'm considering giving away a few books. Just a few. I can't bear to part with very many. We watched no TV last night. Our computers aren't networked properly and I can't print anything from my laptop. The kids are about to start up piano lessons again after a long break. A homemade pinata is hanging from my kitchen light fixture, drying. I ate too much Halloween candy last night. I have to gather library books in a moment and run that errand. What for lunch? Maybe ham sandwiches.

That's what's going on behind these doors.