I dislike Halloween. I really do.
For the past 25 or 30 years I've told people that my dislike of it stems from all those Halloween-motif birthday parties I had when I was a kid. My birthday is the next day, you see -- November 1.
On the other hand, I remember liking Halloween at one time in my young life. I trick-or-treated in the neighborhood and was pleased with the haul I took in. I'll never forget the woman on the next street over who was giving cans of soda pop. That's when cans of soda pop were new and unusual.
As I look back now, I remember disliking answering the door when kids came trick-or-treating, especially if there were big kids at the door. And I've never been interested nor more than faintly amused by grown-ups dressing up for Halloween at the office or in stores and restaurants.
Maybe I'm just too sophisticated and urbane for Halloween. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
However, I can never let the day go by without marking its importance in my life. Today is the 58th anniversary of the day I got my first pair of glasses. It was on Halloween in 1952, the day before my sixth birthday.
And I've been seeing happily ever since.
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