When I was four or five, I had my first Halloween. my mother made me up as a black cat -- pink nose, drawn whiskers, and furry cat ears affixed to a headband. I wasn't really sure I wanted to go trick-or-treating; even to my kindergarten mind, it seemed too social, too aggressive, too confrontational to ask, nay, demand free sweets from strange people I wasn't sure I liked or not.

My mother, astute woman as she was and is, sensed I was going to cling to my shell forever if I was allowed to stay home, so she nudged me out the door, and as I frowningly crossed the street, extolled all the wonderful rewards of Halloween (mainly candy).

We knocked at a house at the end of our street. At first, there was no response. I was just beginning to worry when there was a feral growl -- a tall monster with an awful hairy  green face burst out, roaring.

I began to cry.

Right away, the poor guy -- who must have been in about his twenties -- dropped his arms, and even under a latex mask, seemed sorry, worried by my tears. As he tried to offer me chocolate, I hid behind my mother.

She ended up taking the candy for me and thanking him. After that, I could not continue, so we went home, a shaken (me) and slightly exasperated (her) pair.

Thus ended this holiday of ghouls for young Gloria -- the literal scaredy cat.