Thanks to everyone who's sent me their favorite Halloween memories. It's been so much fun reading about all your experiences. I'm going to start posting some of the responses I've gotten. Here's a great story from Diana in Massachusetts:
When I was maybe 10 or 11 and nearing the end of my trick-or-treating lifespan, I decided to upgrade my candy-holding vessel. Screw the plastic pumpkin -- my 8-year-old brother and I got pillowcases. We'd seen other (bigger, brawnier) kids use pillowcases, and we figured we'd get more candy this way. We mapped out our strategy, started knocking early, and by 7:30 or so, we both had pillowcases heavy with Reeses, snack bags of candy corn, Baby Ruths, mini Marathon bars (remember those?) and lollypops that would last us till December. Then, the unthinkable happened. My brother got candyjacked. Yep, some little turkeys came blowing by on his bike and ripped my brother's pillowcase out of his hand. We both stood there, our mouths gaping, the sound of the kids' gleeful laughter bouncing off parked cars as he careened down the street. Then God interceded. The kid lost his balance and fell off the bike. Now, I was a total candy addict, as well as a quick thinker. As my brother stood next to me, starting to whimper, I realized that a. I'd have to share my haul with him now and b. I was pissed. The anger and indignation rose in my chest as I thought about how much hard work had gone into collecting all that candy. And now some little punk would be snacking on my brother's blood, sweat, and sucrose at my expense? I don't think so. I was something of a little track star as a kid, all legs and energy. Before the punk could get off the ground, I was on him, alternately scratching his face up and pulling his hair (such a girl fighter!) and grabbing the pillowcase away from him. I was also screaming every horrible obscenity my 10-year-old self could muster, stuff like, "You wimp! You're so GAY for stealing candy from a little kid, you RETARD!" The fear coming off the downed candysnatcher was nearly palpable. He released his claim on my brother's candy, pushed me off him, and jumped on his bike. My brother ran over, crying and screaming, "You got it? You got my candy?" That night was a shining moment in sister/brother relations. My brother wrapped the top of his bag around one wrist, held onto my arm with his other hand, and every few minutes or so would say, "I think he was crying," or "I bet he never had a girl beat him up." We got home and my brother, admiringly, relayed the story to my parents. Best of all, he gave me all his Reeses that year.