Back in the sixties, few stores carried pre-packed Halloween costumes, which meant you had to come up with your own. I’d try and pick a design none of my friends would have, and make sure it was something my mom could sew without a pattern. TV characters were always a big inspiration:  one year I was Wilma Flintstone; the next year I went as Cousin It from the Addams Family.

My brother was in his early teens by the time I was old enough to go trick-or-treating, and he’d always take me around the neighborhood if I agreed to share the candy I got. Every year, one of the ladies on our block would have no idea who I was. She’d say the costume was just too good for her to tell who was begging for candy on her front porch. She’d hem and haw and make wild guesses as to my true identity. Then, when I told her who I was, she’d pretend to be shocked–as if my homemade costume had truly made me unrecognizable. I’m pretty sure she did this with all the kids who stopped by her house, but at the time it made me feel pretty special.

While it wasn’t a written law or city ordinance, it was understood that you stayed in your own neighborhood when you went trick-or-treating. My best friend, Terri, lived next to a dentist who gave out toothbrushes and tiny tubes of toothpaste. There wasn’t anything quite that exotic on my block, but sometimes the homeowners would run out of candy and hand out money instead. A handful of nickels can seem like a big deal when you’re seven.

These days, it’s rare for me to venture out on Halloween night. I’m usually at home, watching TV. This year, though, one of my co-workers is having a costume party and I already know what I’m wearing. I’m going to put on a bathrobe, put curlers in my hair and go as Ethel Mertz. I’ll let you know if Fred shows up.

When I was growing up, my family took a vacation every year, but we never went anywhere just to go someplace. Any time we planned a trip it was to visit relatives: my dad’s three brothers in Maryland or my mom’s brothers and sisters scattered around the Midwest.

Growing up in a very small town, anyplace outside Indiana seemed grand and exotic to me. Just crossing the state line and seeing a sign welcoming us to a new state was enough to make my heart race.

Wanting to save time and money, my parents would pack a big cooler full of supplies so we wouldn’t have to stop at any restaurants along the way. The cooler was filled with glass bottles of Coca Cola and Tab, bologna and cheese sandwiches, and, best of all, my grandmother’s cold fried chicken. My grandmother, Tillie, was a wonderful cook, and fried chicken was one of her specialties. She made everything from scratch, including her cookies and cupcakes. She always sent along a big box of those too…and we usually hadn’t gotten very far outside of Indiana before my brother and I opened the lid and started snacking.

It has been said that nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. And the vacations we took may seem quite dated and mundane to anyone who is used to flying to a big theme park or sporting event. But those long summer trips make up some of my favorite memories. Crammed inside a Rambler station wagon, armed with an atlas, a Styrofoam cooler and a Kodak instamatic camera, we were ready to hit the road and simply enjoy being a family.