Buddy and Papaw
Last Summer

 Where’s Buddy? is a running joke at all of our family functions. Let me explain. 

 My brother and I have been playmates, best friends, always-together friends since he got here. Okay, actually first I hated him a little because I was only a year and a half old and suddenly nobody thought I was that cute anymore with a new baby around.

The little booger grew on me, though. At the time my brother entered my life, I dragged around a battered and beaten “My Buddy” doll, popular with late-80s toddlers. Though my Mom had nicknames in mind for my brother, he instantly became my new “My Buddy.” The real life version!

The name stuck, was shortened to “Buddy,” and here we are today.

We played and hunted and skipped rocks and drank Nana’s Kool-Aid and rode around on Papaw’s tractor and basically lived the life dreams are made of, the one I write about here. That is, until I started kindergarten.

Suddenly, I’m told, I no longer had time for my pesky little brother. I had new friends, cool ones, and we went to school and did big kid stuff while he got left in the dust. I don’t remember this at all. In fact, since the time I actually can remember, I’ve been chasing him down, trying to be friends.

Three years ago, that no-good, pesky little brother of mine joined the Air Force. He hopped on a plane, had a few weeks of training, and made something of himself before we ever got out there to celebrate with him. Currently stationed in Korea, my brother has been missing family functions, get-together, holidays, birthdays, etc. for a few years now.

When I call home to chat with Nana, one of the first questions she asks is, “Have you talked to Buddy lately?”

For Father’s Day last year, Papaw was late to lunch by 45 minutes. Buddy called and he didn’t want to cut him off, so I sat waiting in the parking lot at the restaurant for an hour (after driving an hour to meet him there), fuming.

At Thanksgiving, Sissy makes deviled eggs that are to die for. You’ll never guess who she cites as the one who most enjoys those deviled eggs of hers… Every time we have a large family meal, the presence (or absence) of deviled eggs ensures a mention of my illustrious sibling.

Seeing that it irked me, my lovely family members couldn’t let up about it and so without fail, someone in the family always asks at an opportune moment, “Where’s Buddy?” It’s all (mostly) in good fun now, and we even took a moment to highlight this little Matlock family tradition at our most recent gathering – other little brother’s high school graduation. Can’t you just see the joy?

Oh, by the way, before I forget – Have you talked to Buddy lately?

Here comes Summer.

Spring rains made the Creek rush and rage for a few days, but now it’s perfect for wading and crawdad catching. We find patches of clay that we use as a Slip-n-Slide, hurling our bodies toward the creek bank only to go rushing under at the last second when our feet hit the slick, blue patches of clay in the creek bed.

We run our fingers along the surface of the water and collect handfuls of the slimy green moss that floats on the top. Squeezed dry, it makes a clump the size of a kitchen sponge. We use it to wash rocks, then dunk the moss back into the water so we can squeeze them dry again.

I walk over a snake. Every time. My brother is behind me and I hop from rock to rock or let miniature waterfalls rush over my bare feet, and suddenly my brother calls out, “Snake!” I jump, shriek, and search frantically. It’s always right where I stepped last. They are skinny, short water snakes curled up on dry rocks, enjoying the Summer sun. They don’t even blink when we pass them. Sometimes, we pick on them with twigs and long pieces of grasses, poking at their faces. Mostly, we leave them be and keep an eye out for their comrades.

We collect crawdads in large-sized McDonald’s cups. Mama Crawdads have small, bubbly eggs attached along the sides of their tales. You get extra points for finding one. We find itsy-bitsy baby Crawdads that are all but impossible to catch. Very rarely, we find a Big Daddy. The closest thing to lobster that we’ve ever seen in the wild. We jump backward when they rush under rocks, evading our grasp. When you do catch it, you hold it by the middle, pinchers facing out. He’ll flip his massive tail and clamp his claws menacingly, but he can’t get a hold of you if you hold him by the middle.

We collect rocks of all colors, scratching and grinding them together to make face and body paints. We draw designs on our arms out of clay, and it gets stiff and crusty as it dries. When it gets too hot, we get down on our hands and knees and slurp the water straight from the Creek. It tastes like dirt and fish and Summer.

Trash. Broken bottles. Old tshirts. Lots of things come floating down the Creek. Papaw collects the glass bottles if they’re in decent shape. He digs the mud out of the neck and sets each one out on a shelf in the barn. They are green or blue, fat or tall, and we wonder if they were ever used for moonshine.

When a big rain comes, the Creek turns into raging rapids. The water gets so high that sometimes they close the road and we get to miss school because the bus can’t get through. Sissy and Papaw wade across in their giant rubber boots. Nana fusses the whole time the Creek is high, certain my brother and I have a secret plan to jump in when she’s not looking and get carried away forever.

Nana, Sissy, and I are taking line dancing lessons. Well, we’re taking a lesson. Mike’s Dance Barn is out by Ski World on the way to Bloomington, so you have to be on your way there to get there. You never just end up at Mike’s Dance Barn on accident.

We wear jeans and tennis shoes. We don’t really know any line dances. We don’t even know all the music the live band is playing. We are beginners.

The others in the session are hardcore. Worn, scuffed boots. Blue jeans. Cowboy hats. Giant belt buckles. The men have handlebar mustaches and the women have large permed hair with tall, poofy bangs in the front.

We stand in two rows, facing each other. The man on stage calls out turns and steps and moves and I am beyond lost. I have no idea what I am supposed to be doing, but what I am doing is trying not to get stepped on or throw off anyone else’s groove.

Finally, it’s break time. Nana gives me some cash for the concession stand. Score! I get a soda and some candy and head back to the table where she and Sissy are sitting. The “barn” is set up with a dance floor in the center, the stage at the front. The entrance, bathrooms, and concessions are at the back of the dance floor. Along both sides, long tables with several chairs each line up along the walls next to the windows.

We have homecoming here. We have a winter dance here. And we have line dancing lessons here.

The band plays a note or two, signaling that it is almost time to get back at it. I look at Nana. She looks at me. I am done. Nothing in me has any desire to rejoin the herd, ending up a casualty in the synchronized stampede.

Instead, I make my way out to the car where I have my latest romance novel stashed in my backpack. I no longer care if the lessons last 10 hours straight. I have a book. I climb into The Jeep, stretch out in the backseat, and lose myself. I jump when someone taps on the glass.

It’s been an hour. The sunset a while ago. I’ve been reading by the security light through the car window. Nana and Sissy are sweaty and tired and feel all exhilarated from the dancing. They chatter and bicker good-naturedly all the way home.

Luckily, someone in the car behind us has really bright headlights. I hold up my novel and read by the glow of the low beams.

I guess line dancing isn’t so bad after all. 

Wisdom.

Vinegar cures everything. Indigestion. Bad breath. Lady parts. And you can clean the mirrors with it. Everything.

It doesn’t matter if Clyde did it, you have to clean it up.

“Without my Nana, I’m a nobody. With my Nana, I’m a somebody.” She later updates this little chant to “Without my Jesus, I’m a nobody. With my Jesus, I’m a somebody.”

Get what you pay for. Ordering at the drive-thru window is not as simple as it seems. Nana needs seedless buns (for her colon!) and a hot fudge sundee with no nuts. And if we get a mile away and Sissy finds that there is an onion on her cheeseburger-with-no-onions order, you better believe we’re turning around and heading back to get a refund or a new, onion-less burger.

Auttabin hair is the kind you have when it ought-a been brushed before you left the house.

Always spray a little perfume or cologne on each wrist, your neck, and your undies – “Just in case,” Nana says. Also, always wear clean undies, in case you end up in the hospital.

“When you’re talking to yourself, you’re talking to the devil.” Grandma Dori, Nana’s mom, tells me this while I sit and admire the little glass figurines in her living room. I wonder if she meant to call me the devil?

“Roll me one, Ma!” I have no what this means or where it came from, but every now and then someone shouts this out at a family get-together and everyone busts out laughing.

The Pedigo house. This is how you refer to your house when the kids have trashed it and you want them to clean it up so you tell them, “This isn’t the Pedigo house, you know! Clean it up!”

“I made it snow!” If Nana washes the windows or takes a lot of time fixing her hair. If Papaw waxes the car or fixes a leaky pipe around the house or stacks enough wood. Anytime you do something you should do, but normally don’t, it will snow. Guaranteed.

“Don’t swear, Sarah. Ignorant people swear because they don’t have enough of a vocabulary to express themselves with real words. Don’t swear. It’s trashy.” – Mom

The Matlock curse. If you are a woman with Matlock blood coursing through your veins, you will have cramps on vacation. And on your first date. And at graduation. And on your wedding day. A job interview, choir performance, or moving to a new city. You will  be visited by the Matlock curse.

“Pray about it.” If you ask Nana for advice, she tells you to pray about it. If you don’t ask Nana for advice, there’s a miniature Nana-voice in your head that says, “Pray about it.”

Christmas Eve is at Nana and Papaw’s house. I hear sleigh bells outside, and when we open the front door, a McDonald’s Play Set is out there waiting for me on the porch! I make Gary crawl all on his knees past the drive-thru window and order from a menu of plastic pancakes and rubber fries.

Before it gets too late, we have to go home so we can get to sleep before Santa comes. Mom always says we have to wait until Christmas morning to open our presents, but we are insistent and persuasive little boogers.

“Okay,” she finally says. “You can open your stockings. But that is all.” But we already know we’ve won. An hour and a half later, we sit in a pile of tape and shredded paper and toys we can’t take out of the box yet because we’ll lose the pieces in the mess.

We set out cookies and milk on the kitchen counter. We set out celery and carrots for the reindeer. We feel bad that everyone else forgets about the reindeer. They’re the ones doing all the work, you know – all that flying.

In the morning, Mom wakes us up. She can’t wait for us to get up on our own. She wants us to see what Santa brought. In the dining room, in front of the fireplace, little globs of melted snow on the floor show us the route Santa took from the Christmas tree to the kitchen for cookies and then back up the chimney.  The celery and carrots are nibbled too.

All of our presents from Nana and Mom and Sissy are wrapped and under the tree for ages before Christmas. In the weeks leading up to it, my brothers and I divide up our stacks and shake the boxes and count who has more and therefore must be more loved.

But Christmas morning – Santa Presents – this is different. These presents aren’t wrapped. Four shiny new toys sit in front of the Christmas tree. Our names are displayed in curly, North Pole-esque letters. Our stockings are also magically full again. Candy. Squirt guns. Lip gloss. Teeny figurines. We gorge on sweets and Tic-tac’s. We watch Christmas Vacation before lunch and after lunch and before bed, quoting every single line.

The stores are all closed. So are the restaurants. No one is on the computer or a cell phone or even earphones. We sit cozily ensconced in our little house, losing pieces of our new toys in the discarded wrapping paper, bundling up for brief sledding and snowman building and creek ice skating adventures. We come back inside; our snow-covered things end up sopping wet in the floor by the door.

Hot chocolate.  Eggnog. Homemade peanut brittle and a cheese tray that someone left for Papaw on the mail route. We finally feel brave enough to sneak the candy canes from the tree that have been hanging there as decoration. I like the sweet ones with rainbow colors that taste like skittles or bubble gum.

Our Christmas – the jolliest of holidays.

We are making address books in class. We learn how to put the dashes in our phone numbers and to capitalize the street names in front of our houses. We write our addresses in shaky, oversized letters on thick, dark lines across the page. Everybody in the class gets a copy of our Class Address Book, photocopied on the big copier in the office, with three staples holding it together down the left side.

On Sunday, the phone rings. It is for me.

“Sarah, it’s Ni-ick,” my papaw says.

I am excited! This is the first time the phone rang for me that it wasn’t Sissy or some other family member. A real phone call!

“Hi,” says a little voice on the other line. “I called everybody in our Class Address Book so far down to you and you’re the only one who is home.”

We talk for a minute or two, our nine-year-old selves having little to contribute in the way of conversation.

The trouble, though, is that now a boy has called me. A real boy. From school.

Papaw tortures me mercilessly.

He croons to me, “I just called…. to say…. I love you. I just called… to say… I care.” Some weird old song from a long time ago. Embarrassing.

I’m taunted around the house with “Nick. N-Nick.Nick. Nick. NICK. Nick. NICK-O-LODEON!”

“Oh, Ni-ick. So glad you called,” he mimics me. Except, I don’t think I even said that.

“NO! It’s not like that! I was the first one on the list to answer. He wasn’t even trying to call me especially.” My protests, pouts, and shouts go unanswered. Papaw is not the least bit concerned with who Nick did or did not mean to call.

I live in constant fear that another boy will accidently call me someday. Papaw doesn’t care when four years go by, then ten, and Nick never calls me again. He carries on in his own little pretend world where Nick and I are estranged lovers, holding out for the day we can be together, just calling to say "I love you."

We’re going to Disney World! It is Christmas and my brother and I are sleeping on the pull-out couch at Nan and Pap’s. Santa comes in the night and brings me a soft Barbie, the kind you can snuggle and sleep with. I saw them on TV!

It is so dark and early when we get in Troy’s truck to drive to the airport. We pile into the back seat and I am comfortably dozing in a half-sleep state. I can smell Troy’s cigarette. He has the window down, so most of the smoke goes right outside, but a small, sweet bit of it drifts back toward me and it smells good.

At the airport, they put big orange and yellow tags on our suitcases. They are going to fly on a different plane and meet us there. But when we get to Florida and wait at the baggage claim, we find one, two, three suitcases. The others never appear. The airport people tell us they must have been tagged wrong and sent somewhere else, so we’ll get them in a day or two.

At the hotel, we sort out what clothes we have to share among four adults and two children. Nana finds my brother and I shirts with matching sweats. Mine is pink and has Pocahontas on it. There is a Laundromat in the hotel and we go with Nana each morning while our one change of clothes washes. I catch myself staring at a washer, and not thinking and not realizing I am awake. This seems like an important moment. My first daydream. I’ve read about it and heard about it, but now I’ve felt it.

Even though the commercials make Florida look warm and sunny and bright, it is cold. Sissy has diarrhea when we are walking to a ride in Toon Town and we have to wait. We stop by the ocean and watch the waves come up to the sand, but it’s so cold no one wants to touch the water.

Back in the hotel, all the grownups are getting ready and talking and I have to sneeze. The bathroom is occupied. There are no Kleenexes and this is coming out. I grab the closest thing, a t-shirt, and let ‘er rip. I think it is Troy’s. A few minutes later, Sissy picks up the shirt and asks what happened. “Who blew their nose in this clean shirt?” I say nothing. I hate being in trouble. If I just keep quiet and look away, maybe she’ll forget that it happened.

Before we leave, Nana makes a finally sweep of the room to make sure we got everything. Papaw leaves a twenty dollar bill on the nightstand for the cleaning ladies. Sissy whispers in my ear, “After everyone leaves the room, run back in there and grab that money!” So I do.

“No! No! I was kidding. Go put it back,” she says. Sometimes, I just can’t tell with her.

Food.

Fried potatoes. A staple with every meal. They are a little more done on one side than the other, dripping grease. Nana cooks them in an iron skillet and doles them out on Styrofoam plates. She makes Papaw’s plate first. He likes to eat his dinner cold, for some reason.

Sweet tea. The instant, caffeine-free kind. Shaken and chilled in an old two gallon milk jug.

Nana’s homemade chicken noodles. She rolls the dough out on the cutting board and uses a little plastic gadget, with 6 wheels across the front, to slice the noodles into thin little strips. I like to eat the raw dough, with some flour still stuck to it.

Zebra cakes. First, you eat the icing from around the sides. Then, you peel the icing from the top. The bottom is pretty tough to get just the icing. Then, you lick the crème filling from the middle. You eat the cake part last, because it’s leftover and you don’t want to waste it.

Generic root beer. No family gathering is complete without generic pop, but especially without generic root beer. It is warm from sitting out in the van or the jeep, but you drink it just the same. It’s tradition.

Sissy’s deviled eggs. She makes them with the perfect blend of sweet and tangy. Troy sneaks one when he goes to get them from the car, and comes back with little bits of yellow fluff in his whiskers.

Andes Mints. We get Troy Andes Mints at Christmas time. He doesn’t like them. He gets them every year. He takes them home, stashes them in the freezer, and the rest of his family munches on them.

Vegetable soup. If Nana is at work and Papaw has to make his own dinner, it’s going to be microwave vegetable soup with crackers. Nana stocks up on it when she knows she won’t be home to make dinner.

Mountain Dew. The Mountain Dew is Mom’s. Don’t touch it. Don’t even think about it.

Banana pudding. This is mine and Papaw’s favorite.

Cake. Nana makes cake for everything. If you have a birthday or it’s Halloween or it's a Wednesday, Nana makes cake. White cake. Chocolate cake. Angel food cake. Homemade sugar crème icing. It sticks to the spatula when you try to get a piece, so you scrape the clump of icing along the side of your plate and dip the cake in it, like dressing.

I have chickenpox.
And no front teeth.

Everyone else at school has had missing teeth for ages. Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle. Pop! Missing tooth. But it’s taking forever for me to lose one! I’m afraid my baby teeth are going to last forever. Not even the hint of a hint of a wiggle in my gums.

On the first day of kindergarten, Sissy tells me there will be a Pee Detector. It means that if I pee the bed in the night, the next day when I walk through door of the classroom, the detector will go off and everyone will know. Horns blaring. Flashing lights. Just like when they Slime someone on Nickelodeon.

I never pee the bed again.

Finally, my front tooth starts to wiggle. I make the mistake of telling Papaw. He wrestles me to the floor in the living room, like he always does, and starts mashing his fist into my thigh muscle, like he always does. This is the worst kind of tickling. I’m laughing, but it hurts, but I’m laughing. Then he goes for my mouth. YANK! My tooth is gone. Blood is gushing everywhere. Did I mention the other front tooth had wiggled just a bit too? YANK! Both teeth are gone. Even more blood. It’s salty and warm in my mouth.

“Don’t put your tongue in the hole and a Gold Tooth will grow there,” they tell me. But it’s too late. The mushy, fleshy crater is too enticing a sensation to resist, even for a gold tooth. I dip the tip of my tongue in the hole again and again, looking for a sign of the new grownup teeth that are supposed to be growing in there.

On Spring Break, I get the chickenpox. I have itchy, scabby, red dots all over my body. Even on my butt and armpits. Nana uses a scratchy sponge and rubs Gold Bond power on my back, my arms, my legs. This is heavenly. She makes me sit in a vinegar bath too. This just hurts. It stings and smells bad and the water gets cold too fast. I don’t normally like when Nana makes me take vinegar baths anyway, but this is the worst.

My mom wants to take my picture. I have no teeth. I have chickenpox. I cry to her, “I just want my old self back!” What if I stay this way forever? Dotted and toothless? What a horrible fate! No one will ever be my friend or want to sit next to me at lunch or let me borrow their red crayon. I am in a state of abject despair. Mom just laughs. And takes my picture.

Aunt Sissy is grownup, but she’s kind of not. She smells good and has big, blonde, poufy bangs, and she’s the coolest person in the world. Her nails are long and pink. She plays the radio loud in the car, and gets Cheetos and Big Red pop when we stop at the gas station.

She works at the Season’s Lodge waiting tables. She stops there to say hello or pick up her check, and we stand at the front by the hostess and eat the mints. They’re in a bowl on the counter, and only guests who have just finished their meal are supposed to have them, but we’re with Sissy, so we’re allowed. They are delicious, and I shove five in my mouth at a time.

I’m trying to follow her as she weaves in and out of the tables and through the halls. I follow her into a room behind a heavy swinging door. It’s so loud. Dark. Smokey. Everyone in here is old. “Hey! You can’t be in here! This is a bar!” someone shouts at me, and I turn around, run back through the door and out the hall, mortified. What’s a bar? And why can’t kids be there? And why can Sissy be there if I can’t? We’re friends - don’t they know?

Because we’re friends, Sissy takes me along when she goes to a baby shower at the Season’s. It’s for one of the girls who works there with her. We play games at big round tables, but I don’t know how to do any of it and I don’t know the answers. Except for one. Baby food jars with characters’ faces taped to them are passed from hand to hand. Who’s that? Who’s that? Write it down on your list, but don’t show anyone or else they’ll cheat. “I know that one! It’s Cruella De Vil!” I helped.

At the drive-thru, Sissy tells us about conjunctions and types of nouns and teaches us new words, words that are way longer than the ones on my spelling test at school. Inside the truck, waiting for our fries, my brother and I get to sit up front. Some sharp corners make us slide and topple in our seats and look for something to hold onto, so Sissy tells us about the Cuss Word Bar. It’s right above the door, on the ceiling, and only for emergencies. And when you grab it, it’s just like saying a cuss word. We giggle and try to sneak our fingers to it when she’s not looking.

My brother and I get to ride in the back of the truck sometimes, but we have to lay down flat. The police will take us all away if they find us back here. We lie still, flat as boards and barely breathe, the wind rushes over us and sometimes tiny, sprinkling raindrops fall and splatter on our faces, our knees, our bare feet. I watch the leaves and branches and telephone poles passing overhead and try to guess where we are on the route home.

Any time I try to watch TV, Sissy attacks me. Sprawled out in the floor watching Yogi Bear or Lamb Chop, and suddenly she’s twisting her fingers tightly in my hair, or poking her long, pink nails into some baby-fat flesh, or sitting on me, pinning me down. “It’s loooove, Sarah,” she says with a grin, and then flits away, off to do something cool and fabulous and young. But when she wants me to sleep, she gently, gently rakes her long fingernails over my closed eyelids, soothing. It makes a soft scraping sound. It feels divine. 

The barn smells like dogs and dirt and old tobacco leaves.

Papaw grows fields of tobacco in the summer. When the tobacco is first planted, we get to ride around on the planter, pulled along behind the tractor. Two-seated, with a wheel in the middle, you have to stick the little backer plant into it really fast or else  your fingers catch and you miss a row. Papaw walks around afterward and presses the dirt in around the little plants, and fills in the holes we missed.

It’s really hot out when they cut the tobacco. The leaves are so tall and bright green. The Bacci Worms are long, and fat, and full of juice. Papaw squishes them and they ooze green backer juice into your hand or on your shoe. The cut stalks are stacked on Bacci Sticks, and left in the field to dry out in the sun. My brother and I use the Bacci Sticks as swords to be Donatello, or as canes, or tie them together to make a raft to float on the Creek. The rafts never float. 

The leaves are sticky and browning at the end of the summer when they get hung up in the rafters of the barn. Still on Bacci Sticks, they hang and are spread out evenly to dry out even more. When the barn rafters are full of upside down backer plants, the Bacci Worms fall from the sky. I’m sitting on the second or third highest rafters, which are as big around as a horse. I scoot back to make room for the bundle on its way up to the boards above me, and my bare leg catches on the dusty wood. I have splinter. And it’s huge. The wood inside my skin is as big as the tip of my pinky finger.

It takes forever for it to come out. Nana makes me sleep with a sliced potato wrapped against it to “draw it out.” I beg Papaw to take his pocket knife to it when it’s been in there for a week. I promise not to cry. I can tell he doesn’t want to, but it hurts. He sits down and exams my leg, places the knife to my skin, and the splinter pops out. No cutting necessary. The skin that was stretched scars and bubbles up and you can see it on my left calf.

When it gets cold, they run a kerosene heater and dress in camouflage coveralls and peel the leaves off of dry, crackly, yellowish-brown tobacco plants. We sit and watch, mostly trying to stay out of the way so the grownups won’t make us go back inside. Nana, Papaw, Sissy, Troy, Gary, Brian. They take turns standing in a row, forming an assembly line of tobacco stripping efficiency. A small, black radio blares country music. The floor of the barn is dirt and hay. When they get a pile of leaves big enough, they put them in a small, wooden box with a press at the top. Lower the press and then crank the handle until the tobacco block is small and compressed and a billion pounds.

Polly and Daniel lay content in the back stalls, howling occasionally, but mostly ignoring us. Ginger and Jiggy whinny when we ignore them, but Jiggy is old. She has arthritis in her legs and she bites our thighs when we try to sit on her back. Instead, we climb the tractor that sits in the middle of the barn, only scramble off again to press our noses close up to the crank handle when they start to press another load. Papaw is the strongest man alive, and he’s got the pressed backer bundles to prove it.

Trick or Treating is tricky around here. I am jealous of all of those kids on TV who live in neighborhoods and can set up lemonade stands and ride their bikes on the sidewalk and walk door-to-door collecting candy on Halloween. We get dressed up in homemade costumes, patched together that day. A tie-dye vest here, a drawn on mustache there, and we’re ready to go. Unless we are Power Rangers, or Trolls, or M&Ms. Those we buy at the store. We pile into the car and drive to a select few homes. Usually Nan & Pap, and Sissy & Troy. Sometimes, Mom drives us to random people’s homes and we walk down long, dark driveways and ring the doorbell because their porch lights are on.

The real treat is Artist Drive in Nashville. Here, there are sidewalks and doorbells and everything seems just like on TV. I hold my sister’s hand and gather candy in my bucket well past the age I should have stopped, but she’s a baby and I’m carting her around, so I figure it doesn’t hurt to be rewarded a bit for that, right? It’s weird to see my friends outside of school with their parents. Seeing them in their family units is much more strange than seeing them in costume or with painted faces.

At first, we get some packaged candies as well as some homemade treats. Popcorn balls, apples, brownies. Then the news tells us that people in some town far, far away from Nashville are hiding razor blades in apples and poisoning popcorn balls. After that, we just get candy.

The best is when people splurge and give you the full-sized name brand bars, like Hershey’s or Reese’s. Or at the end of the night when it’s almost curfew and people start throwing candy into your bucket like it’s yesterday’s trash and they can’t wait to be rid of it.

Nana always prepares way too many goodie bags of candy, just in case a passel of kids decide to make the long trek up the dark driveway because their porch light is on. They hardly ever do, and we always end up divvying up the extras. It doesn’t occur to me that some people don’t know their grandparents.