Normally, I hate it when strangers knock on my door. It usually means they’re going to try to sell me something, hand me pamphlets or ask to use my cell phone to call for pizza. (Yeah, that’s happened.)
But every Halloween, I buy loads of candy — the good stuff, no raisins or sugar-free gum here — and turn on my porch light to wait for kids to show up. Of course, they never come. I’ve spent the last few years living in apartments and condos, places not really renowned for excellent trick-or-treating. So my doorbell sits idle, and I do too, usually winding up in front of the TV with some fun-size Snickers.