We live on a street that used to be called Cat’s Whisker Road, the oldest street in Kenmore. Maples line both sides of our area and form a canopy of leaves that turn flame-colored in the fall. Our sidewalks are buckled and poorly maintained. The residences are a mixture of apartment houses, homes built in the 70s, a few McMansions and a sprinkling of old cabins that date back from the 1930s.

The traffic is ridiculous. Commuters use the two lane street to get to and from Seattle, and the 35-per-hour speed limit signs are a joke. A frail older gentleman lives a couple blocks down from us, and I shudder when I see him tottering along on the narrow sidewalk.

All this to say, if I was a kid, I wouldn’t want to trick-or-treat on this street. Just crossing the road is a challenge. Still, every year I buy a couple bags of candy, in case some brave souls come by. They don’t. Most of them head for the swankier neighborhood on the hill above us. We eat the candy instead. We are our own trick-or-treaters.