Come back with me to the1940s era in Chicago. During the first few days of July, my younger brothers and I walked to the neighborhood Woolworth’s store to buy a very important item for our Fourth of July celebration. We had to make our purchase no later than July 3, for all businesses closed on Independence Day.

After a week’s visit with my brother and his wife in New Mexico, we were heading back to Kansas. Our plan was to go as far as Liberal, spend the night and on to Manhattan, our home, the next day. We noted snow on the sides of the roads east of Albuquerque but soon ran into a dry area. Clear sailing!

This was before cellphones and a GPS in your car, so I kept an open map on my lap. About 4 in the afternoon, I looked at the map and said to my husband, “Looks like we’re about an hour out of Liberal.” I looked up and noticed big, white flakes floating from the sky.

I have a confession to make. I don’t like Halloween, and I never have. Even as a kid in the Chicago suburbs, it was not a big deal for me. It was a day to get through. Oh, I participated in the school parties, school parade, and trick-or-treat time in the evening, but I never got excited about it like some kids did.

Our family moved to Manhattan from the northwestern part of Illinois in 1975 when my husband accepted a job at a local bank. Ken and I were excited about the move, our 3-year-old daughter wasn’t actually aware of what was happening, and our Golden Retriever was happy to go wherever the family went.

It was our son, Kirk, who balked at the move. He was part-way through first grade, and he didn’t want to leave his school or his friends. He turned 7 only days before the movers arrived. Even a birthday didn’t soothe his ruffled feathers. His world had been turned upside down.