Year 1
“I’m going to TP your house on Halloween,” Dicka announced to the next door neighbors, seated at our dining room table.
“Yes,” Mrs. M said with a laugh. “We’ll hold you to it.”
The visiting family talked about the price of toilet paper now after its scarcity in the early pandemic and how excited they were to be chosen for Dicka’s end-of-the-month “surprise.” It was October 8, 2022—only seven months into our home ownership and friendship with the people circling our table now—and only three weeks before the fall holiday, so they wouldn’t have long to wait.
The last day of October fluttered in like the vinyl ghost tied to the tree a couple of cul-de-sacs over. I emptied bags of sweets into the candy bowl—no clue how many trick-or-treaters we’d entertain in the evening hours—and flicked on the front light to welcome the costumed masses.
As the evening ticked away, we watched a movie together while listening for the knocks of disguised visitors. My mind was already on November and the next holiday.
Husband’s and my phones pinged. A text from Mr. M next door.
Is Dicka coming to TP our house soon? We’ve been waiting for her.
I sent back a quick thank you for the reminder and summoned Dicka outside to make good on her forgotten promises. But first, I snapped a picture of her wielding a single roll of toilet paper and texted it to the neighbors to prepare them for The Onslaught. She wriggled into her hot dog costume for the event.
Before our girl exited the house, however, in came a texted photo of Marcos, the oldest of the three boys next door, wearing his hot dog costume and holding one roll of toilet paper in each hand. (Side note: Did the two of them buy the same costume on purpose for the occasion? Or at least know of the other’s garb? No and no. Now back to the story...)
Dicka blasted back with her own photo, three rolls filling her arms. The frankfurter shot us another image of himself; this time, he posed behind a pyramid of the white, papery ammunition.
Dicka and Ricka charged out the front door to sling the streams of white and capture footage of it. When they returned, breathless, a text popped in from Mrs. M.
Wow! I didn’t see that coming.
The girls played us the blurry video of their TPing acts involving the sugar maple next door. The jostled camera captured their crimes in the dark—their lobbing of strips into the branches, their whispered panic-giggles, their tripping back into the house—like The Blair Witch Project’s “found footage” except with zero horror and one hundred percent more bathroom tissue.
The next morning, we expected to awaken to proof of the previous night’s shenanigans—garlands of white on boughs of orange-gold foliage (the work of a hot dog and her sister) and two meager strands of tissue draped over the hood of Dicka’s Honda (the work of the hot dog next door)—but the evidence was gone.
We later learned Marcos had arisen early to clean up the fun, erasing all but the memories and video footage of Halloween 2022.
Year 2
“I’ll be in Kona for YWAM in October,” Dicka told the neighbors in early September of 2023, “so I won’t be able to TP your tree this year.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. M said. “How can Halloween happen without you?”
“The family will have to do it.”
As usual, close to the date, the neighbors texted a reminder, and as Halloween evening rolled in, the toilet paper rolled out. Committed to tradition, Ricka set about to accomplish the task, and she persuaded Husband to join her. Together, they flung strings of tissue into the branches. But it went down at dusk, and no one wore the hot dog costume. It wasn’t the same without Dicka. And where was Marcos?
In the text thread later the next day, Mr. M said he had come home from work, intending to clean up the remnants of the night, but the job was already done. He asked who was responsible for his pristine tree.
“It wasn’t us,” Husband said. “I’d blame Marcos for it.”
But I knew the whole story. On the morning of November 1, I lugged out the ladder, first tossing glances in all directions hoping to avoid notice, and ripped down every last shred of Halloween 2023.
Year 3
“I’ll be in Kona again in October,” Dicka once again announced to the neighbors in September, “so I won’t be able to TP your tree this year either.”
“Not again,” Mrs. M said. “Who will do it now?”
But we had some ideas.
On October 23, Mr. M texted us a reminder. We're looking forward to Halloween decorations between our houses. Toilet paper?
I confirmed our participation in the annual event, added TP to the Target shopping list, and rifled through Dicka’s closet for the needed uniform.
And then we waited for dark.
*****
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.