Not a good hiding place

Halloween is an odd sort of holiday to celebrate. It was, however, a favorite time for us little kids—with its dress up and make believe and candy and other treats. And, at our house, a big kettle of Mama's homemade chili. She made it for Halloween, as far as I know, every single year. And often served it with cider or pumpkin pie.

Our costumes were simple ones, made from whatever was at hand—ghosts made out of old bed sheets, or hobos out of patched clothes, or cowboys out of bandannas and holsters and cap guns that we might use any other day of the year to play cowboy. And that was fine for wearing to school on Halloween day, but it was always cold on Halloween night, so we had to wear coats over our costumes when we went out trick-or-treating.

We received a really nice treat the Halloween I was seven. My only sister, the ninth of my parents' nine children, was born on Halloween. Her name was Jackie. I do not remember why my parents chose that name for her—it seemed like forever after she was born before they settled on her name—but I rather doubt it had anything to do with Jack-o-lanterns.

Growing up on a farm, there were not a lot of neighbors close by, especially within walking distance, so someone older in the family, a parent or an older brother, would drive us in the car to go trick-or-treating to the few nearby neighbors. We used to get very nice treats from them, home-made doughnuts or full-sized candy bars or colored popcorn balls or other goodies, not the little snack-sized things common today.

One year, while we still lived on the farm in Oregon, when I would have been perhaps eight or nine, I hid my paper sack of goodies inside the oven, thinking that would be a good place to store my cache away from the searching eyes and fingers of others who might want to share my loot. It never occurred to me that someone might heat up the oven without checking inside first. And, of course, that's exactly what happened, and I was one sad little boy.