Here's what I was thinking about as I brought my daughter door to door begging for candy tonight.

For starters, its okay if mommy wear's her cat ears... they'll still give her candy. 

Our road is no longer the "it" place for trick or treating... not since they tore all the houses down.

My daughter has a bright, yet scary future as a flasher...I watcher her time and time again, whip open her plaid, Pea Coat to show the person at every single door she was a cat.  It was quite a move she had down.

Lastly, this military brat strolled down Main St in the town she's lived in for quite some time....maybe even most of her life at this stage of the game, and I took comfort in knowing that I knew every single family along our route and that my little girl was safe.  You're taught from a very young age that all your candy has to wait until you get home.  It then gets spread out on the table and checked over by the parental units for safety, opened pieces, and of course anything they may want to pocket ( I guess it's the parental Vig)  But as we left each door step Ellen would ask me where to go next, and each time I told her the family's house by name.  Every single one of them, up one side and down the next... even the Relic house of the Golden's where the people actually live in the barn. 

I think for the normal person this seems like nothing worth mentioning, but for a person that grew up in different places, and even crazier at time, Base Housing, the thought of knowing all of the surrounding families by name is quite a unique opportunity.  You know your neighbors.  The fun ones, the odd ones, the questionable ones to avoid.  The ones you can bet on a conversation with, and the neighbor that will give you snack sized bags of potato chips.  I also know that I hope...no I Pray!  That the Harrisons never stop giving out apples and literature.  Ellie turned around with delight when Mr. H dropped that in her bag and told me all about it.  She also got to it after a few pieces of candy, and even cut the apple up with her own little knife and ate it up.  Did I flinch at the idea?  Heck no!  I knew exactly where it came from. 

At the end of the night, I can say, it's all good.  It's all okay.  It's nice to have a place called home.


Ps.  After a few houses I just started telling people she was a cat burgler, since she wouldn't wear the ears, the tail or let me paint her whiskers.  Really just a kid in a black velvet Unitard!