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A few days before Halloween, I was in the drugstore in downtown Jefferson, and one of the clerks asked cheerily, “Are y’all goin’ to Halloween Walk this year?”

By that, she meant would my family and I be attending the city’s annual Halloween celebration, which takes place in and around the downtown square.

Halloween Walk is a popular Jefferson event at which the local merchants, churches, and clubs set up tables along the sidewalks and give away candy to costumed kids who are trudging along in single file, herded by parents and grandparents.

Yes, we’ll be there, I replied. I had volunteered to take my granddaughters Maddie and Sarah to the event, with the able assistance of their grandmother, my ex, Deanna.

When I first wrote about Halloween Walk a couple of years ago, I may have been a little harsh in my criticism of the event. As I explained, Halloween Walk is designed to keep the kids corralled and under control, not wandering the neighborhoods after dark and maybe causing mischief.

To me, it seemed to be intruding on a holiday that has worked just fine for decades and didn’t need adult improvement.

(Later, Maddie and Sarah innocently defeated the purpose of Halloween Walk by trick-or-treating around the neighborhood anyway.)

But, since I wrote that earlier post, I’ve pretty much made my peace with the event. Contrived or not, every kid in attendance is delighted to be there. That makes it hard to complain.

As October 31 approached, I found myself wondering if Maddie would want to go this year. After all, she is nine years old now and a sophisticated 4th-grader. Had she outgrown such juvenile frivolity?

When I asked her, she looked at me as if I had an extra eye in the center of my forehead.

“Of course I want to go,” she said. “Why would I not want to go?”

Silly me. I underestimated the siren call of the candy — virtually unlimited quantities of it, free for the taking.

In case you think I overstate the situation, let me point out that instead of taking along a small plastic jack-o-lantern to collect the candy, as Sarah did, Maddie brought a large plastic Macy’s bag. It was big enough to hold a small child.

——————

When I picked up Maddie and Sarah on Halloween afternoon, they were fully costumed, aflutter with excitement, atwitter with anticipation, and ready to go.

Sarah was dressed as Wonder Woman, and, of course, was disarmingly cute. Her gold crown was a bit too large, but her ears kept it from becoming a collar.

Sensibly and thankfully, the costume featured a skirt instead of Wonder Woman’s famous skin-tight short-shorts. I don’t think Wonder Woman’s red boots had flashing LEDs, either, but they were eye-catching on Sarah.

Maddie wore the uniform of a Jefferson Dragons football player, which she borrowed from a boy in the neighborhood who had outgrown it. On the back of the jersey was a strip of orange tape bearing the nickname her father gave her at age two: MADDOG.

She chose not to wear shoulder pads, but had the helmet ready to go. It was well worn and festooned with stickers, including a large fire-breathing dragon and a double row of small skulls. I assume the skulls stood for tackles, sacks, or some other gridiron achievement.

She thought about using the helmet as a candy bowl, but it was clumsy and heavy. She left it at home and took the plastic Macy’s bag instead.

Deanna arrived wearing a jacket that, for obvious reasons, she wears only on Halloween.

By the time we arrived downtown, the action was well underway. The four of us merged into the procession on the north side of the square.

One of the rules of Halloween Walk is that all foot traffic must proceed in the same direction. This is important, because if people went in both directions, chaos would ensue. It would be like the Saturday crowd at the mall. The procession would slow to a crawl, and people would be bumping into each other.

For the most part, the citizenry understands this and cooperates.

But not everyone gets it.

When we reached the far corner of the square, we came upon two ladies having a minor confrontation about the direction of travel.

One was a portly woman accompanying a child in a Batman costume. They had just walked up the hill leading to the square from the west.

The other woman, according to her nametag, was affiliated with Main Street Jefferson, the event organizer.

“What we need is for folks to go around the square in a clockwise direction,” the city lady was saying. “So if y’all will, just go back in that direction, down the hill there.”

“We already been down there,” said the portly woman. “Just came up the hill. We want to go around the square next.”

“Well,” said the city lady, “We need for people to proceed in the same direction, which is the clockwise direction. Y’all can go down to that crosswalk there, and the officer will help you across, and then you loop back around to the square that way.”

“Y’all ought to put up signs, or arrows,” said the portly woman. “How’re people supposed to know?”

“That’s what I’m here for!” the city lady cackled. “No need for arrows!”

In silence, the portly woman turned around, took young Batman by the hand, and went back down the hill.

——————

Jefferson is a small town, and there is no practical way to re-route traffic for an event like Halloween Walk. The few side streets near the square could handle the cars well enough, but not the truck traffic.

Therefore, the city has no choice but to leave the downtown streets open to normal traffic during the event. The city police have the difficult task of herding distracted pedestrians and moving vehicular traffic at the same time.

Often as we proceeded around the loop, we found ourselves walking next to a long line of idling vehicles. In one of the cars, I spotted a woman eating a slice of pizza.

She was in the front passenger seat. The window was down, and in her lap was an open box of pizza — deluxe, everything-on-it pizza. In her hand was a steaming slice that drooped in the middle as she maneuvered to take a bite.

I took a step forward and said, “Excuse me, are you going to eat all of that?”

For a split second, the woman looked at me in stunned amazement. Then she smiled.

“Yes — yes, I plan to eat it all,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” The driver of the car, a man, guffawed.

At that moment, I felt an urgent tugging on my sleeve. It was Maddie, pulling me away from the truck.

“Rocky!” she hissed through clenched teeth, “That was so embarrassing! I know that lady! She goes to my church!”

“Well, hey there, Maddie!” the lady with the pizza called out. Maddie smiled weakly and waved.

“Let’s go!” she muttered, tugging again at my sleeve.

“Relax, Maddie,” I said as we continued on, “I was just trying to be funny. That lady knew it was a joke.”

“Yeah, but it was still embarrassing,” she insisted. “I see her every Sunday at church.”

As Maddie well knows, I have a tendency to needle her in such situations — “joking on me,” as she describes it.

And indeed, I wanted to take advantage of the situation and reel off a few wisecracks. I could feel the jokes coalescing in my head.

Maddie, just apologize to the lady for your grandfather’s behavior. Tell her he has Old-timer’s Disease. He does nutty things.

Tell the lady I’m only allowed in public on special occasions. Now I’m back at the institution, so she doesn’t have to worry.

All of that went through my mind, but I kept quiet.

Poor Maddie. At her age, she is so easily mortified by the rest of us that I didn’t have the heart.