I don't know about you, but I look for certain signs:

* like if I have to reach up to drop the Sweet Tarts into a trick or treater's bag;

* or if you can tell that the hobo won't be able to wash off that five o'clock shadow, but he'll have to shave it off before work the next day;

* or if Cinderella looks way too good in her glass slippers.

My folks had their own way of determining when it was time for us to stay home and pass out the candy instead of going out on a cavity collection--when we had no costume.

It was the year we'd rush home at dark, grab Dad's old Army jacket out of the closet, pull on a stocking cap (pre-O.J., of course) and hit the streets with the case off Mom's king-size pillow.

We all did it.

And it was the same for each of us when we returned home--first my brother, then my sister and finally me. Mom greeted me at the door when I got home with those heartbreaking words: "That was your last year of trick or treating."

But then she let me keep the candy. So I didn't fret for long since I had a pillow case full of sweets to keep me happy. And since it would be another year until the subject came up again, I had enough time to get used to the idea.

I had a tougher time getting used to the idea as a parent, though. When the youngest grew that critical inch--when he was taller than his dad--I hated to admit it, but I had to pull the plug on his pillow case.

I put him through that all-important test.

"So," I asked him, "what are you planning to be for Halloween?"

"Hungry!" he said with a chuckle.

"No," I explained, "I mean what's your costume going to be?"

"Oh, whatever," he said. "I'll just throw something together when I get home from school that day."

Uh oh. The end was near.

It was a rather bittersweet adjustment for my wife and I.

Hey, don't get me wrong. It's not like either one of us really wanted to go wandering around in the dark, chasing a pack of boys who don't know the meaning of the word walk.

You know, it's just those darn memories.

Those early years when the oldest was the cutest Kermit the Frog you've ever seen, or when the youngest was a Care Bear with a great big heart on his chest.

Of course, that was long before they made their own costume decisions. Later they would become cowboys, super heroes, vampires, athletes and grotesque beheaded figures and gory monsters ... and finally, "whatever."

I'm not sure the headless man was much of "Kodak Moment." But those early Care Bear and Kermit years are sure fond memories.

I don't know when I was more excited about Halloween ... when I was a little kid heading out to do a little trick or treating on my own, or when I was a young dad taking my own kids out trick or treating.

The results were about the same--a bag full of candy I could nibble on for a few days (hey, you don't suppose my folks ever got into my candy ... nah, not my mom).

Of course, when I was a kid that bag was loaded with not only candy, but also homemade cookies, popcorn balls and candied apples.

My kids could only keep the things that were wrapped up tight. At the night's end, we'd have to dump out the contents of their bags on the table and carefully go through the treats, looking for anything unusual. And, naturally, all the Tootsie Rolls had to go to me.

There was never any problem with tampering, but you can't be too careful since there are morons out there doing such things. They'd always end up with a pretty big stash, and they'd watch it like hawks.

"Hey!" they'd blurt as they walked into the room. "Are you eating my candy."

"Yot bui," I'd mumble through a mouth full of Milky Way. I'd gulp hard and explain, "Uh, no ... that was celery."

"Yeah, well it didn't crunch," they'd say, "and isn't that nougat on your chin?"

But with both boys in the 20s now, the trick or treating years have long since ended. I was lamenting those regrets to my wife over the weekend.

"Yeah," I moaned, "I remember little Care Bear, walking through the neighborhood with his little hand in mine, the cute little 'twick o tweat,' the bag filled with an assortment of candy."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked. "We have grandchildren."

"Great!" I responded quickly. "Now, where do we keep those king-size pillow cases?"

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@community-newspapers.com.