I idolized her.

If BEWITCHED was my favorite TV show, then Hallowe'en was my favorite Holiday. I loved dressing up. In fact I still do. For the three years that I had been following the pagan tradition of disguising myself so that the spirits of the Netherworld who came back for one night each year would not recognize me, I had become a clown, an angel, and a hobo.  As a clown, I soiled my costume.  As an angel, I more resembled the diminutive clone version of Gorgon the Friendly Angel* than any of the Heavenly Host.  There isn't much to say about a hobo.  They aren't scary, at least they didn't used to be.  As in years past, I was in a quandary as to what would be the perfect disguise. My mother, the harried mother of many, many kids, decided that I would go as a time-honored classic.  Not a super-hero, not a warlock, not werewolf (I would be transformed into those in later years); a ghost made out of one white bedsheet.  One less piece of laundry to worry about I guess.

Okay, fine.  I would simply float through Esta Madera, at the time one of the upscale housing tracts in town, and scare the heads of household out of their most prized possession: Candy.

Boo.

As usual, I traveled under the watch of my sisters, four and five years older than I. As with most masked costumes, it was nearly impossible to see out of the eye holes, and I had to be led like a blind man around the neighborhoods. *Sorry to all the blind men reading this who take offense at the analogy.* But that problem soon abated as, with each and every step on our mid-night journey, I tripped on the Classic Costume that had not been hemmed properly.

After about fifteen minutes, I could see as clearly as anyone else in the middle of the night. After a half hour, one eyehole was so big that the head of the costume collared my neck, and I no longer could claim to be the spectre I so wanted to portray.  If I was no longer a ghost, what had I become?

I was not having fun.

The evening, thankfully, was drawing to a close. As we continued  our search-and-seizure mission, the intended targets began to batten down there hatches:  jack o'lanterns dimmed; front room lights no longer blazed. People were running out of candy.

We almost turned back. Went home. Called it quits. But there, in the middle the street, one brave house still beckoned trick-r-treaters. I should have known then and there that it was a trap. But hey, I was only five years old.

We edged up to the front door and Jen bravely rang the doorbell.  A happy tone sounded inside, innocently enough. The door opened, and there bathed in the light glowing from the carved pumpkins on the porch stood Miss Nichols, my Good Witch-turned-teacher.

"Well, hello there, Matthew!" she exclaimed with a pleasantly surprised smile.   Back then teachers always called us by our full and proper first names.

I stood, shocked, but manage to eke out a mumbled greeting. Then, remembering that I was not alone, I turned to my sisters.

"We're Matt's sisters," said Jen, the elder.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," said Miss Nichols as she proffered a bowl of sweets. "We're almost out, but there might still be a Tootsie Pop or two for each of you."

"Thanks," said Jen. We each took our share.

Like any other good hostess on Hallowe'en, Miss Nichols appraised our costumes. "You all look grand," she began.  "A gypsy...and a hobo (someone always had to be a hobo)...and...and...what are you supposed to be, Matthew?"

Something caught in my throat, making speech a temporary impossibility. Jen, ever helpful when it could be at the expense of a younger sibling, piped up.

"He's dressed as Snow White!"

Thanks, Jen.