By jonasCorning. One word encapsulates the mischievous thrill of Halloween in my youth. Raised in Terre Haute, my friends and I were brothers in harmless rebellion. It was about daring to sneak into unharvested cornfields on moonlit nights, swiping corn stalks, and not getting caught. The corn kernels, plucked and stored in tube socks, became our instruments of prank, flung at unsuspecting homes.
Imagine us, a motley crew, hiding behind bushes on Poplar Avenue, near the 31st street, waiting for passing cars. Toss a handful at a night cruiser, and the sheer surprise of the driver - that was our Halloween treat. I recall one perturbed motorist, enraged and in pursuit of us. Hearts pounding, we darted down dark alleys, scrambled over fences, the excitement rushing through our veins.
But corning was more than just the thrills. The anticipation began weeks before Halloween, the camaraderie built whilst shucking corn, sharing light-hearted moments, and idle chat about costumes or puppy loves - Stewart was a Jedi one year, right when Star Wars hit the screen. A couple of years later, we'd toast with a beer, the talk laced with a slightly more mature edge.
Not everyone was as daring. Some friends played lookout, others were more bold, seeking the laughter, the adrenaline rush. I've lost touch with those friends, but in those late October nights, we were bound by the spirit of adolescence—audacious, carefree, and joyous