The Buick Le Sabre glided like an un-ruddered ship. Except for the metallic bondo on the rear quarter panel, it was the color of khaki work pants, signaling blue collar with a trail of exhaust and slouching muffler. The chassis was loose and squirrely. I liked the floating feeling, but it made my brother turn progressive shades of green until Daddy pulled to the side of the road. He blew cigarette smoke from the window as Jeff wretched up his supper beside the white line. The tires, discount retread, had already taken to balding.

After being a ghost for two years running, I convinced Mama to invest in a store-bought costume. At $3.99, I was destined to be a Bozo for at least two years, even if the pants went the way of high waters. Pope’s Dime Store was a Christmas kind of splurge. The clown’s face was fastened by two sloppy, slanted staples and a rubber band that cut into the back of my head and then stretched slack, useless. But it wasn’t handmade and for a seven-year-old country kid, that was of most significance.

While Mama attended to most extracurricular activities, it was Daddy that took us trick-or-treating. It must have been in their marriage vows, or some negotiated lower class pre-nup. I can hear the parental dialogue.

“You take them to Sunday School, and I’ll take them out to beg for candy on behalf of the undead.”

“Okay, sounds fair,” agreed my mother.

My preference was Mama. Daddy’s idea of accompanying us meant dark driveways to swap tales, cigarettes, and maybe a flask nip with old codger friends. We mustered courage and bolted past Saint Bernard mixes to wooden porches for a handful of chocolate footballs and some Smarties. Forever the optimists, we used pillowcases as candy sacks.

Our garden produced the vegetable part of our food pyramid, and my parents planted a row of pumpkins in late summer. Their twisty vines and yellow flowers brought forth delight as I counted the days until we could choose one to scrape of its innards and carve a triangular face. As a toddler, I called it a punk-a-lantern.

Our farm was a good distance from the paved road and we didn’t get many trick-or-treaters. The occasional cousin or friend might stop by with children or grandchildren to visit a spell. Mama marveled at their costume, made a pot of coffee, and gave them a slice of pound cake.

The year of the Bozo costume, kids from my school bus braved our long bumpy driveway and dog, Skippy, to beat on the door with greetings of trick-or-treat and requests for candy. Panicking at those strangers and their expectant bags, Mama gave those kids, wait for it … sleeves of saltine crackers.

Whoever said that it builds esteem to have a nickname, never rode a school bus after their Mama dispensed crackers instead of M&Ms. But, Zesta had a nice ring to it.

One Halloween, Daddy drove us 30 minutes north to Biscoe. Town folks flat out know how to Halloween. We ran from house to house, our sacks heavy and satiated in sugar nirvana. There was talk of razor blades in apples and people trying to poison children, but we never had anything x-rayed. I was more into Red Hots and Kit Kats than single servings of unwrapped fruit, plus when there are five kids in a family, one is bound to suffer some sort of demise.

I’m not sure how old I was when I aged out of the door-to-door part of Halloween. I suspect that my parents told me that the gig was up, and I was forced to do something angsty with my friends like ogle over Donny Osmond or do the dark skate, with the black light at Jones’ Roller Rink. But my heart was still on the street trying to score a Snickers.

After I was grown and had my own little pumpkins, my kids attempted to create their own Halloween traditions. For six years, my oldest was a black kitten. Two decades later, I suspect those felt Target ears are still tucked away for safe keeping just in case there’s a cat call. With enough income to afford a new costume each year, I poured over catalogs, suggesting goblins, zombies, or maybe a kangaroo. “But I like being a cat,” Riley replied with determined enthusiasm.

Sigh.

With luck and hard work, the planets aligned in this phase of our lives, leading Smoking Hot Love Biscuit and I to purchase retirement property in a magical land of autumn make believe. Think Mad Hatter meets Addam’s Family meets Wizard of Oz backdropped by Garden of Eden. Our first Halloween on Ann Street included a child with a miniature Shetland pony as part of her costume ensemble. A real, live pony.

Not everyone loves Halloween. I’m down with that. To me, there’s enchantment in an October night when you get the chance to transform yourself into something different and new, accompanied by the rallying thrill that others just might believe you.