Then there was the year I turned twenty-six, and began to realize that partying every night I had off was probably not the way to reach old age. I hated the thought that I was getting “too old” to stay out half the night drinking and carousing, and it certainly wasn’t lack of enjoyment in the activity that was bringing me to that realization. However I’m not a stupid man, and it didn’t require more than one instance of suffering through the aftermath of a race to see how rapidly one could consume a pint of Dark Eyes Vodka to convince me that there were better uses of brain cells than as random targets for ethyl alcohol molecules.

    There was my fortieth birthday, and the growing comprehension that in all likelihood I had lived more days than there were remaining to me. That, in and of itself was not nearly as disturbing to me as was the knowledge that I was, officially, “middle-aged.” That awareness was not a surprise, and in truth had been building for some time. That which I once took for granted—the young man’s quiet confidence in his body’s ability to deal with a hundred different stresses and minor maladies—was no longer so strong and certain, as the wear and tear of life began to catch up to me.

    But of all the ‘thresholds’ I have crossed in my fifty-nine years, there was one that, at the time, seemed far more significant than it does now, in retrospect. It was late in the summer of my fourteenth year. I had had major surgery that spring, and was not yet completely healed. As it would turn out, I would not be completely healed for another three years, but this was the time of year my thoughts normally turned to planning for Halloween.

    Readers familiar with my tales of Halloweens past will understand that I was not one who took my Halloween preparations lightly. Usually beginning in August, they always proceeded with much care and fastidiousness. In truth, had Napoleon employed such thoroughness in the spring of 1812, it might have occurred to him that Russian winters tend to be cold. I did not see any reason in that summer why the Halloween season of 1978 should be different.

    But there was a difference, a subtle one, but one that grew more pronounced as the weeks marched on towards October. Part of this difference was no doubt due to my prolonged illness and a growing awareness of my own mortality—not a concept with which a fourteen-year-old is well-equipped to deal. Though I hated to admit it, even to myself, my experiences had changed me. In a very real sense, my childhood had ended that spring, when my doctor told my parents and me that he doubted I would make it to my next birthday. Those are harsh words for anyone to hear, especially a child. Though I never let my parents know that it affected me, it did—deeply.

    The other part of what had changed was simply that I was growing older. As unwilling as I was to admit the effect that my illness had had on me mentally and emotionally, I was even more unwilling to admit that I was outgrowing something that had always been one of the great joys of my life. Some of my earliest memories are of Halloween and Trick-or-Treating, baby brother in tow, older sister leading us from house to house. I would be dressed in a horrendously bad Frankenstein’s Monster get-up, cheap styrene mask held on by a rubber band and two staples, with a ridiculously thin mouth slit that I would invariably cut my tongue on. The dawning realization that such joy might be nothing but a part of my past was more frightening, on a conscious level, than the abstract thought of death that had proven to be erroneous.

    All that late summer and early fall, my brother, our cousin, and I continued to work on our plans as always, but gone was the sense of anticipation that I normally felt at those times. Replacing it was something unfamiliar, something my fourteen years had not given me enough experience to understand. It was resignation—the acknowledgement that I had turned a corner, walked through a doorway in life. I knew, whether I admitted it to myself I cannot say, but I knew. This would be my last Trick-or-Treat. And I thought, quite incorrectly, my last Halloween.

The rest of the season passed quickly, much more so than ever before. I went through the motions, more for my younger brother and cousin than any true desire for the work. When the big night arrived, it amazed me how totally out-of-place I felt—surrounded by the familiar sights, sounds, trappings, and rituals that had been so important only a year before, but were now somehow alien to me.

    Years later, as an adult, I visited my former elementary school, stopping to say hello to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Hughes. She still occupied the same classroom, with the same desks, and, I would swear, the same ‘60’s vintage pictures on the wall. Everything was so familiar, only the scale was terribly, dizzyingly wrong, as though I was a 1960’s G.I. Joe placed in a set designed for my 1980’s namesakes. That feeling was remarkably akin to how I felt that long-ago Halloween, and for the first time in my life I was anxious for the holiday to end.

    I believe that I cried myself to sleep that night; to be honest, forty-five years is a long time, and some of the memories are faded and blurred. I am certain that I mourned—mourned for something I thought was irretrievably lost to me. Not youth—at that age, youth is seen more as a handicap than something to be prized. Rather it was the joy of being able to do youthful things, to revel in the wonder of being a child that I was mourning. Eventually, however, would come the awareness that one need not be a child to play—and that when it comes to Halloween, there’s just as much joy to be found on the other side of the door.