“Don’t worry, Miss Kitty,” I said into the bathroom mirror as I adjusted my Marshall’s hat. “I’ll be back soon.”

I was only half as tall as Matt Dillon, but I somehow felt taller with the gun on my hip and the shiny badge on my vest. This was the last time I’d play Gunsmoke. This was the last time I’d save Dodge City from outlaws. I was 12 years old and preparing to trick o’ treat for the last time. After tonight, I’d have to be content with helping my parents pass out Mary Janes and Sweettarts to little kids who came up on our porch in Casper and Raggedy Ann costumes. After tonight, I’d be too grownup to participate in such child’s play.

I left the bathroom, walked down the hall and into the living room. My parents were sitting on the couch with a huge Tupperware bowl filled with Mary Janes and Sweettarts for the onslaught of costumed beggars.

“Oh, you look so—” my mother began, but stopped short. She knew better than to use the word “cute” when I was trying to be anything but cute. “—so handsome,” she finished.

“Don’t worry,” I said in a reserved manner. “I’ll be back soon.”

I exited with a James Arness swagger, drew in a deep breath from the crisp night air, and went to join my friends for our final Oct. 31 pilgrimage.

Johnny Holsapple was going to be a hobo this particular year. What else was new? Johnny Holsapple was a hobo every year. He usually pulled his dad’s overalls and flannel shirt out of the dirty clothes, put some Campbell’s soup cans in a bandanna and tied it to the end of a stick, rubbed soot on his forehead, applied some of his mom’s mascara to create a 4 o’clock shallow, and by 7 o’clock he was ready to hit the pavement in search of candy.

Carl Hathaway ruined one of his mom’s white sheets every Oct. 31 when he cut eye-holes in the center of it and pulled it over his head to become a ghost. By the end of the night, after dragging the edges of his costume through soggy leaves and across dew-drenched lawns, the sheet was finally deposited in his father’s garage where it would later be ripped into rags to buff and wax Mr. Hathaway’s Impala Sport Coupe.

Carrie Ross was once again a princess. Unfortunately for her mother, Carrie grew about six inches each year so she required a new costume each Halloween. Unfortunately for Carrie, Mrs. Ross possessed none of Betsy Ross’ sewing talent. Carrie never seemed to mind that her princess garment required a multitude of safety pins before it hung in a halfway decent manner on her tall and lanky body. As long as she had the semblance of an aluminum crown and a gold cardboard star on the end of a stick, she was happy. We tried for many years to convince her that princesses don’t carry wands, fairy godmothers do, but she defiantly insisted she was a princess and she could carry whatever the heck she wanted. Carrie rarely dressed like a princess and even more rarely spoke like one.

Tommy McMillan’s dad owned the local appliance store so each year Tommy made some sort of cumbersome costume out of an empty appliance box. This year he had decided on a big red fire truck with Styrofoam ladders and paper plate tires. He wore a fireman’s hat and secured a stuffed Dalmatian to the back of his truck with duct tape. The ensemble was impressive, but Tommy somehow had forgotten to cut out holes for his arms. We spent the entire night taking turns lugging Tommy’s candy around, occasionally removing our favorite varieties from his stash as payment for our toil.

Arnie Huffman was the most demented member of our group. He usually dressed like an infamous serial killer or one of the walking dead. This year he put on a pair of Bermuda shorts, loafers, and a white T-shirt, carried a math book, and note pad, covered himself with ketchup and strategically attached a couple fake crows to his body.

“Hey, everybody,” he said enthusiastically. “Guess what I am.”

“How gross,” said Carrie. “You are SICK!”

“Give up?”

There was no response from the crowd.

“I’m one of those kids that got attacked by the black birds in the movie ‘The Birds.’”

“Like I said,” Carrie muttered. “You’re sick.”

Cindy Taggleston’s mother was the art teacher at school. She began contemplating Cindy’s Halloween costume around the first of January. Ms. Taggleston used her talents to create odd costumes that made the rest of us scratch our heads. The prior year Cindy wore a black leotard with a large glittery question mark attached to her stomach.

“Hey look,” Johnny said. “Cindy finally dressed up like somebody we know. You’re the Riddler from Batman, right?”

“Oh, no,” Ms. Taggleston corrected as she stood proudly behind her daughter. “Cindy’s costume represents the single cosmic question that, when answered, will unlock all the mysteries of our universe.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Carrie said. “I was gonna say that.”

As Cindy came closer with her annual Halloween frown which arose from being the brunt of her mother’s creative streak, she warned the group: “If anyone asks, I’m The Riddler.”

This particular year, she came out onto her porch wearing a harem girl’s outfit with a veil over her face. The rest of us looked at each other in silence, wondering who had the nerve to guess her costume. I was the stupid one.

“Okay,” I said. “You represent the oppression women feel living in a man’s world?”

“What are you talking about?” Cindy laughed. “I’m Barbara Eden from “I Dream of Jeanie.” I told Mom we’d egg the house if she didn’t let me choose my own costume this year.”

Wow, Cindy was growing up. We were all growing up.

Many years later, I’m the one holding the big Tupperware bowl and passing out Mary Janes and Sweettarts to costumed beggars. Every hobo, ghost and princess with a wand takes me back to a simpler time when I didn’t have a care in the world.

Last year, I could barely believe my eyes. There was a knock at the door, I opened it, and there before me stood a little boy wearing a Marshall’s hat and a shiny badge on his vest.

“And who do we have here?” I asked.

“I’m Matt Dillon from a show called ‘Gunsmoke,’” the little boy replied.

“Wow. I can’t believe you’ve even heard of ‘Gunsmoke.’”

“I haven’t,” the boy added. “It was my Dad’s idea. I think it was a show on TV back in the olden days.”

“The olden days?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like a hundred years ago.”

“Well aren’t you something,” I said, forcing a smile.

I reluctantly dropped a single miniature Snickers in the brat’s bag and decided that Halloween just wasn’t as much fun as it was a hundred years ago.