The history of trick-or-treating traces back to 16th century Scotland and Ireland, where the tradition of "guising," was the practice of going from house-to-house at Halloween in search of swag. Children would don a costume and perform in an effort to be rewarded with some kind of food, gift or other item of nominal value.
I am imagining enthusiastic kids festively dressed as the professions of the day like: barber/surgeon, hatter or a "gong farmer" (the person who dug out human waste from privies and cesspits) receiving a beaver pelt, a cup of gruel or some blacksmithing spikes. Oh joy! Later the threat of a "trick" was added from those that apparently thought walking up to someone's house and asking for free stuff warranted retribution if you weren't satisfied with your handout.
My personal history with trick or treating began in the early 1970s. We didn't have the ubiquitous Spirit Halloween store located in an abandoned Radio Shack/former meth lab. My mom and I got my "perfect" costume at the National grocery store at the Town and Country Shopping Center (kids, ask your parents) when she was picking up some Hamburger Helper and a pack of menthol Kools.
She never wanted to spring for the copyright protected classic Superman costume so I had to settle for "Caped Action Man." He was just like Superman, but with a Burt Reynolds Smokey and the Bandit moustache; and instead of the Man of Steel's iconic red and blue, my outfit was Soviet-era beige and smelled like mothballs. One year she opted for the legally permissible "Wombatman." She assured me the cuddly marsupial was just as intimidating as Batman. Have you ever seen a wombat? They make Bambi look like Charles Bronson. It is like being a ladybug that protects the city. Fail. It was worse than being Wolfman with yellow raincoat. My therapist and I have only recently worked through the trauma I suffered when that old lady said: "Oh and you must be Paddington Bear....how adorable," as she dumped a popcorn ball into my pillow case candy sack. I'm sorry homemade treats cooked up by some bathtub confectioner? That is up there with dental floss, a pencil or raisins (my teeth and my colon thank you). I felt like Charlie Brown getting a rock.
We had great costume choices in the 70s. A panoply of every ghost, ghoul and goblin as well as numerous fictionalized characters and real life figures: The Fonz, Count Chocula, Andy Warhol, Cher, Halston (basically everyone at Studio 54), Patty Hearst, Oscar Goldman (the Six Million Dollar Man's boss), Bob Woodward, Evil Knievil, Tiny Tim, Howard Cosell, and Dolly Parton. Sadly, time has not favored the omnipresent (and problematic) hobo character. R.I.P. What do you expect from the generation that gave kids candy cigarettes?
The mask was a paper thin, plastic shell with eye holes that made seeing anything utterly impossible and movement of any kind life-threatening. This polyethylene husk was mashed onto your face with a rubber band/tourniquet which was "secured" with a basic office staple and popped off before you could ring your first doorbell. There was a tiny slit (vaguely near your mouth) which allowed for minimal oxygen. As you blindly lurched from house-to-house in a sugar-induced coma the jagged perforation became stank, sweaty, and soaked with a paste of chocolate and saliva which had worn your face down to the gums. By the end of the night you looked like a centuries’ old, sand-blasted Egyptian sphinx. I think plastic surgeons had entire practices devoted to what they called "Halloween Lip Syndrome."
The body of any 1970s disguise was always made of fly-away one size-fits-all, tissue paper apron which inexplicably had the picture of your character on your chest. Hmmm? Not the most confident design. The material said it was "flame resistant" which was also not terribly reassuring; sure it burns, but slowly. Would anyone be surprised to learn if it was later revealed that these sartorial wonders were actually made of asbestos, lead paint and mercury?
Years later, when my son was young (and I still got to pick out his costume) I made him dress as one of my all-time favorites: Charlie Chaplin. He had the cane, the bowler and a miniature sport coat; he looked every bit the "Little Tramp." Unfortunately, he grew weary of holding the cane and hat; this left him only with the narrow moustache which was shared by only one other person in history. Gulp. Without the other props he looked like he should have been rolling over Poland in 1939 with the Panzer Division. It turns out there is one costume worse than a hobo.