Candy!!!!!!

I am tossing out a general question Halloween related. What is every one's least favorite candy?

I sat here and thought about my least favorite candy I had received while trick or treating as a child. Necco wafers topped the list. I still don't know what they are made of. They have little if any sugar in them, look like they might be antacid pills and have no distinguishable flavor between the colors. They might be pressed dust for all I know. Never cared for smarties or pixie sticks or candy corn.

We used to go to an old lady's house that lived at the end of our block. She gave out whole cans of Shasta pop. She was born with no hip joints and would slowly waddle to the door, her upper body swaying wildly back and forth like a child getting tossed about on a bumper car ride. She smoked constantly and her house reeked of smoke. Even as you turned down the path towards her house you could start to smell the smoke. She was something like 180 years old, was covered in deep wrinkles, had no teeth and her speech was garnished with a rattley southern accent. Her house was completely covered in vines and weeds. All that was visible from the road was a small porch light shining through a thick growth and a dim glow from her living room shining behind her screen door that seemed to say "Enter-- if you dare! Mwa! Ha! HA! HAAAA!" It was always a spooky house, but particularly ominous on Halloween. The vines and trees transformed in the dark to ghostly figures hunched over and leering. in order to get to her front door you had to pass through a gate in her fence. the gate had an archway over it and the entire fence and gate were draped in crawling vines. Passing through the gate, the branches and leaves groped out at you like zombie hands. I always just closed my eyes and ran through. Once you reached the door you could see inside her house. Bubba, her son was always sitting on the couch in nothing but coveralls (wish I were making this up, but my siblings will verify the validity of this haunting tale) Her dog Butch, a black and white bulldog would come barking and snorting to the door. From deep within the house over the blast of the TV you could hear Mable scream "Butch! Git over here!" and she would emerge from into view, the living room light creating a silhouette of her swaying waddle dance. She would open the door with the promised Shastas in hand, but hold them hostage as she yammered on about crazy people putting razor blades in candy and people poisoning kids with Halloween candy. 30 or so minutes later she would conclude by explaining that this is why she gave out sodas. Because you can't poison a pop. This is what I believe she said anyways. I only picked up every 4th or 5th word because she talked in that funny lippy way people do with no teeth, and the whole time I was just thinking "Give me the pop lady, so I can dart back through that scary gate and go home and put myself in a sugar induced coma!" After we got the can of soda, the can always made our candy bag smell like smoke. Looking back, I am not sure why I didn't skip that house.

I don't think I was ever a very smart child. It might even be easily argued that lack of intelligence has carried over into adulthood. My mom however, was smart. Every year for Christmas she would bake treats for the neighbors. For whatever reason at the time, she could never take the plate of treats that she had just made, down to Mable's house. And for whatever reason, "You are the youngest" "Can't find my boots" "Your legs are younger than mine" "You are closer to the door" "Just Swing on by real quick" and I always ended up taking the treats down to Mable's. Several hours later I would return, frozen and full of lippy, slack jawed meanderings. One year I lucked out. When I ran down to her house I noticed her purple AMC Pacer wasn't home. She was out either restocking on cigarettes or out for her morning coffee. She didn't answer her door. I pumped a joyous fist into the air said "YESSSS!" and put the plate of treats down on the porch and ran like Hell home for once delighted that I was back in less than a minute and having not endured any conversation.

Another time we did a neighborhood service project at her house. We all showed up and started clearing all of the weeds and vines off of her house. Just off of her porch there was always a metal lawn chair. While I was clearing an armful of branches, I turned around and saw her sitting in her chair watching the flurry of activity in her yard. She had a cup of coffee resting on the bottom of her foot and her leg was twisted all the way around backwards so that the bottom of her foot was just below her chin, making a nice resting table for her cup. I guess when life gives you bad hips, you make a convenient go-everywhere coffee table. And then one day she just died. I was astonished. I was convinced she was immortal. I was told the missionaries had killed her. That figures. They had been teaching her for quite along time. They challenged her to quit smoking. In less than a week the poor old thing was dead.

You know, Shasta doesn't taste the same when the can isn't covered in a thin veneer of smoking film.