In my earliest memory of Halloween, I'm trick-or-treating with my cousin, who's almost a year younger than I am. Oddly, I have no memory of what my costume was that year. Perhaps it was the cat costume in this photo. Perhaps not. It was likely a similar vinyl outfit, the kind with the plastic mask held in place with the flimsiest of elastic bands. A homemade costume couldn't possibly compete with cheap plastic. But the costume is not the part of the evening that lives in my memory.
We lived in the country on a dark rural road, next door to my cousins, and my mother walked with me to their house where, together with my aunt and young cousin, we were to go trick-or-treating. Because we were small and because the distance between houses was big, we went by car, with my aunt stopping at each driveway as my cousin and I ran up to the house for treats. It was thrilling. My plastic pumpkin grew heavier with each stop.
Until the fateful stop when my cousin refused to get out of the car.
It seemed another trick-or-treater, much older, likely a teenager, was dressed as a police officer. My cousin was terrified. Apparently, he had been told that if he misbehaved, the police would one day come for him, and he now feared that this day had finally arrived. He was scared to death. In tears. He could not be convinced. There would be no trick-or-treating at this stop.
So, it was back into the car for us as we drove off to the next house in the opposite direction of the "police officer". I was highly chagrined. Then and for a long time afterward, I could only dream of what wonderfully delicious treats I had missed out on that night. I could only dream about the treats that got away.