Reflections from the Swamp
Dear Reader
Immigrant families, not used to Halloween, have to adjust to this strange ghost and witch-filled holiday and decide how and if their children are going to participate. This celebration of Halloween is as controversial today among some immigrants as it was when I was a child in the 60’s.
A Foreign October
The Van Duyvendyk family had arrived in Calgary from the Netherlands in the mid-1950s. It was 1962, and the prairie winds were already biting by late October. Marije, matriarch and keeper of tradition, stood at the kitchen window watching neighbourhood children string up paper bats and carved pumpkins. There was no equivalent tradition in Holland.
“Wat een onzin,” (What nonsense) she muttered.
Her four children, aged three to twelve) had quickly absorbed Canadian customs. They loved skating, snowball fights, and especially the idea of Halloween. To Marije, Halloween was akin to worshipping the devil.
“But Mom,” Arie pleaded one afternoon, “Everyone’s going trick-or-treating. Even my friends and the neighbours!
Marije shook her head. “We do not celebrate devils and ghosts. Geen spoken. Geen heksen. (No witches. No spirits.) We don’t worship the devil.”
“But we could go as something else,” Ritz offered. “Not scary. Just fun!”
Marije’s lips tightened. “Halloween is not for Christian children.”
The next day, before Halloween, the children returned from school and passed by Mrs. Lazelle’s place. Mrs. Laselle knew that the kids weren’t allowed to go Halloweening, so she thoughtfully gave them a bag of apples. When Ron got home, he held up the paper bag filled with apples. “Mrs. Lazelle gave these apples to us for Halloween!”
Marije raised an eyebrow. “Apples?”
“Yes!” Arie said. “You could make appeltaart. Or appelmoes!”
Marije took one apple and turned it in her hand. It was firm, red, and smelled of autumn. She remembered her own mother peeling apples in Lekkerkerk, humming hymns as cinnamon filled the air.
“Misschien” (Perhaps), she said softly.
That evening, the children helped peel and slice—the kitchen filled with warmth and the scent of bubbling fruit. Marije smiled for the first time that week.
“You may go,” she said at last, “but no ghosts. No witches. And only to houses with apples.”The children cheered.
Marije and the children rummaged through closets and trunks. Arie, aged twelve, wore a long skirt, a bra and a wig. —a teacher,” he said. Ron put on his coveralls, borrowed Papa’s cap and went as a farmer. Janet had a pretty dress and a Teaera and became a princess. Ritz was going to be a cowboy, but his mother had better ideas.
Marije had spent seven years in Indonesia with Nicolaas, her husband, while Indonesia was a Dutch colony. In her trunk, she had a collection of Indonesian hats and coats. She gave Ritz the smallest white suit jacket and a peci hat. The peci hat, a black velvet cap, became a national symbol of Indonesia. She told me that I would be President Sukarno, who always wore a peci hat in his official portraits.
Halloween treats were simpler than today. Kids would yell out,” Halloween Apples,” and get apples, peanuts, toffies, Chicklets, and the occasional small chocolate bar. I wrote down the addresses of places with chocolate bars to remind me to go back there next year.
The Vandenakkers, who had eight kids, weren’t worried about ghosts on Halloween. All the kids dressed in bed sheets with two holes cut for eyes and a piece of baling twine for a belt. The costumes worked well on cold Halloweens when a coat and touque were necessary under the sheet to stay warm. Most of them slept on the holey sheets and occasionally played ghosts when it should have been bedtime.
Each child carried a pillowcase to collect treats, just like their classmates. As we approached a house, we would yell out,” Halloween Apples.” People would often ask Ritz,” Nice costume, who are you?” Ritz would say,” I’m President Sukarno”. They would reply, “Who is President Sukarno?” Ritz enjoyed the extra attention and explained who the Indonesian President was. As they walked door to door, the kids quickly realized their pillowcases were filling fast—with apples.
During the baby boom of the 50’s and 60’s, parents were less concerned about leaving children unattended while outdoors. There were more children than adults because many families had four or more kids.
“Too many apples,” Arie whispered to Ritz. “We need room for candy!”So, with mischievous grins, the boys began secretly dumping their apples into little Ron’s and Janet’s pillowcases and removing their candy and peanuts.. We told our younger sister and brother to go home. The pillowcases were too heavy to carry, so they dragged their bags home, freeing us to gather more candy quickly.
By the end of the night, Janet and Ron’s pillowcase sagged with fruit, while Arie’s and Ritz’s were full and sweet with candy.
Back home, Marije sorted the apples for baking. The boys snuck upstairs with their loot, hiding it behind books and under socks. For months, they stretched their stash—one caramel here, one chocolate there—until the last peppermint was gone sometime in February.
Marije never knew. Or perhaps she did, and chose not to say.
Marije watched her children laugh and share their stories. She sipped her tea and thought: perhaps Halloween wasn’t about devils after all. Maybe it was about community, imagination, and—most importantly—apples.
