The Last Roundup

I believe that I was in sixth grade when I made my last mad dash for candy. My friend from down the street and I made a plan to scour the north end of town to clear out as much sugary loot as we could carry. To that end, we enlisted the help of my younger brother, who we needed to pull the wagon. The wagon was going to be where we would occasionally stop to dump the pillowcases that we were using to haul Nestles, Hersheys and Tootsies by the sackful. Our intent was to never appear with a bag that was too full, so as to put the candy-givers on guard. We hoped to take advantage of as much generosity as possible.
We walked for miles along twisting, turning suburban avenues, taking careful note of those houses that looked most inviting. The ones with the jack-o-lanterns still lit. The ones with the cardboard skeleton taped to the front door. The ones that had kids "ooh-ing" and "ahhh-ing" as they came back down the sidewalk toward us. The houses that let the kids paw their own fistful of candy into their buckets.
It was dark. It was cold. The porch lights that had been calling us on and on were starting to wink out. We had no true reckoning of how much candy we had. We knew that we would chuck the Laffy Taffy and Necco wafers. There would be some serious bartering over what remained, with my eyes on Snickers and Almond Joy. It was understood that my little brother would have last pick, but a developed taste for candy corn put him in good stead.
When all was said and done, we had been away from our house for nearly three hours. By traveling in a mostly circuitous route, we were able to make stops on both sides of most streets, including our own. When we were done, there was no mystery left for Trick Or Treating. By the next year, we had moved on to junior high and left my younger brother, in a very literal sense, holding the bag. Halloween was no longer about organized and sanctioned begging. It was about parties and pranks. It was less about costumes and more about appearance.
Now that I'm all grown up, and handing out candy at my door, I still harbor a secret wish that we won't get quite so many kids at our door. That means more "fun size" for me in the days and weeks after the big night. But even that has a hollow ring to it. It isn't the potpourri of those halcyon days of yore. My adult mind chafes at the notion of the two or three Milk Duds wedged into the bottom of that one tiny box. So much packaging. So much waste. If I wanted a box of Milk Duds, I could hop in the car and drive over to Costco where I could get a great big vat of chocolaty goodness all for myself.
But it wouldn't be the same.