At 6:34 p.m., your mom buckles you into the back of the Range Rover. She drives to the first neighbor's house and waits in front of it until precisely 6:37 p.m., when she gives you permission to unbuckle and go up to the first door.
Clothed in jammies and our plastic masks, we'd fall down in front of the TV, dump our night's treasure on the floor and divide it up by good, yucky and OK, stuffing as much as we could into our mouths during the process.
Halloween is almost upon us. Obviously, the meaning of this day evolves as you move through life's stages, but it was only during my grammar school years in the 1970s that I looked forward to it with such anticipation.