Each year my mother would reiterate her two rules about Halloween. The first rule was “no accepting sweets.” The “no candy” rule extended all year with the exception of the Christmas multicolored ribbons my Aunt gave as a gift. However, on Halloween she saw the parade of little monsters and goblins ringing our doorbell as beggars. “Saying trick or treat doesn’t make it right,” she muttered. Mom had grown up poor and proud. She had never asked for a handout in her life.

As generous as she was to the neighborhood children every other day of the year, on Halloween she halfheartedly handed them sticks of sugar-free gum or tiny bags of popcorn. As soon as I was old enough, I shared the task of opening the front door. I was not allowed to join them. As I glanced at the full sacks of tasty treats each child gripped tightly, the demon of envy crawled up and out like a Halloween spider. The trick I learned was to look into each child’s face, not what they carried. It melted my resentment like warm chocolate and it is a technique I have used all of my life.

Mom’s second Halloween rule was that I could only wear a costume I designed and stitched myself. We were not poor, but every spare nickel and dime went into a savings account my mother called my college fund. “It’s just a waste of money to buy a costume when you can make one yourself,” Mom said.

This was my treat. I spent weeks thinking about what costume I could make that was both unique and fun to wear. Looking for something unlike the trite witches and ghosts, I would flip pages in magazines. After watching the Shriner’s parade one summer, I crafted an outfit that resembled a genie sprung from a bottle. I sorted through the old clothes, costume jewelry, hats, scarfs, bits of fabric. The balloon leg pants came from a tattered chenille bedspread. The pants puffed out at the legs, held tightly to my waste and ankles with elastic seams. The wrapped turban was scrounged from one of my father’s old jersey undershirts. I wore a single hoop earring. I stitched slippers that had a curled back point at the toe. I can still see that one-of-a-kind costume in my memory and feel the sense of accomplishment. It has lasted longer than the taste of any candy.

I was searching the Internet when I got a pop-up warning me that my computer had been infected. Odd I thought since I had blocked pop-ups. The message gave me a phone number to call to fix the problem. I couldn’t shut down my browser and I panicked. My reptilian brain hissed “do something quick or you will be sorry.” I called the number. The man on the phone said he could see if I had a problem or not and before I could say anything he took remote control of my laptop. That’s when I began to think I had made a stupid mistake. My curser was moving and it wasn’t me moving it. He showed me reports from my system and said, “Your warranty has expired and you have no virus protection. See all those zeros on this report? I can get rid of the malware, clean up your system and install virus protection right now.”

“How much will that cost me?” I said as fear began to be replaced with skepticism.

“That depends whether you want protection for one year, three years or five years.” Then after I was silent he said, “One year is $99.”

“I can purchase virus protection from some other company, if I need it.” I said.

“Oh yes, but with a Mac, your choices are very limited.” I knew that was not true, but I just wanted to end the conversation so I didn’t argue.

“Then I’ll go to a Mac store,” I said.

“I’m okay with that,” he said.

I didn’t really care if it was okay with him, I thought. I was now angrier than scared. “If I change my mind what number can I call?”

As soon as I ended the call on the phone, I disconnected my computer from the Wi-Fi and shut it down. Then I called Apple Support. “No one should take control of your computer without your consent,” she said. “I would have been just as frightened as you were about what he might be doing.” Then she assured me that I had done the right thing to shut the computer down.

As I suspected even though the warranty had expired, that had not affected my virus protection. At no charge, she directed me through a series of tests on my computer system. The scam artist had lied on several counts and in doing so he had also defamed Apple. Relieved that no damage had been done, I told my reptilian brain to go sleep under a rock and then gave Apple Support the phone number from the scam artist.

Ralph the custodian at the library arrived for work on a chilly morning. He noticed another car at the back of the parking lot. “That’s odd,” he thought, “the library doesn’t open for another two hours.” He thought perhaps the owner had not been able to start it for some reason and left it there, but then he noticed the engine was running. Ralph walked over to see if the car’s owner had left a note on the windshield. It startled him to see that in the driver’s seat was a young woman, slumped over the steering wheel. He knocked on the window and got no response. The car door was locked.

By the time I pulled my car into the lot everything appeared as usual, Ralph was standing by the door waiting for me. He opened the door so that I would not have to use my key. His usually cheerful face was grave. Halting a bit, he explained the police had come and gone. As Ralph feared, the woman was dead. She had blocked the car’s exhaust pipe, turned on the car engine, locked the doors, and waited to die. If she had had any second thoughts later she would have been too paralyzed by the fumes to get out of the death trap she had constructed.

I had often thought of Ralph as our Tin Woodman, a man who was more comfortable building bookcases and taking care of people, than acknowledging his kind heartedness. He lowered his voice and said, “They took her body to the morgue and towed her car away.”

It was mid-morning when the police officer came to the library to say that they had identified the body. She was a college freshman. The officer told me her name, but I didn’t recognize it. Her name rippled from one staff member to another in hushed tones. Most shook their heads and said, “No I don’t remember her.” Murmurs of “How sad,” echoed each time another staff member came into work.

But Emily at the circulation desk said, “Oh yes, I remember her now. She was soft spoken, kind of shy. She probably used the college library most of the time, but she came here every once in a while.”