I don’t want to say my block gets crowded Halloween evening, but call my neighborhood the mecca of trick-or-treaters, and you wouldn’t be far off.

Or maybe the El Dorado of candied dreams, every foyer running with corn fructose syrup, every street flowing with Princess Leias, SpongeBobs, Catwomen and Iron Men, sugar-seeking alteregos wading through pumpkin-colored leaves flooding fading, lackluster lawns.

My neighbors know all this. One parent sits just inside the front door like a Hatfield waiting for a McCoy, hugging his ordnance of saturated fat, caffeinated chocolate and countless calories.