The chill in the air proclaims that summer is finally left behind . The golden leaves on the towering cottonwoods that line the canal running through town announce the glory of autumn , and the acrid scent of burning cottonseeds drifts from the gins , heralding another bumper crop . It is October in Balmorhea , the tiny West Texas town in Madera Valley , with just 750 souls as of the

One time I was a pansy .

1940s census , where I spent my childhood . The highlight of October was Halloween . The whole month was consumed with intense planning for the evening that almost everyone in the valley came to celebrate .

Mother spent a considerable part of that month making costumes for my two older sisters and me . She was an accomplished , creative seamstress . Using old sheets or remnants of fabric , cardboard , ribbons , crepe paper — whatever was at hand — she crafted outfits that transformed us into clowns , princesses , majorettes and flowers . We wore them with pride , joining our friends in costumed revelry .

The carnival was held at the school , which benefited from the proceeds . An enchilada supper in the cafeteria opened the festivities , and after eating , the families moved to other parts of the school , where there was something for every age . The little kids , myself included , enjoyed the “ Go Fishing ” booth — a corner of the stairwell to the stage in the auditorium , partially blocked off by a curtain . We lined up for our turn to “ fish ,” and when we got to the front of the line , one of the helpers gave us a long stick with a string tied to the end of it . The string was thrown over the top of the curtain , and the “ fisherman ” waited expectantly while another helper in the booth received the string and picked out something from the vast store of items donated for the occasion — small ceramic pieces , packages of chewing gum , candy bars , miniature toys — tied it to the string , and gave it a gentle tug . With help , the fisherman retrieved the catch and went home with a new treasure .

The big kids , those several years older than my group but not yet driving , were intrigued by the haunted house , a journey through imaginary horrors in a schoolroom converted for the purpose by their slightly older , highly imaginative peers . Lit only by flashlights controlled by the operators , the room offered opportunities to hear ghastly moans , to bump into ghosts , to dip hands into concoctions described in gory detail by the guides . Two of the “ dips ” were peeled grapes and cooked cold spaghetti prepared in our kitchen by my sister Judy and her friends , who thought those items would adequately represent the innards of the recently departed .

Grownups were content with less horrible experiences ; they gathered on the cement tennis courts for the cakewalk . Two large concentric circles with enough space between them for one person to walk were chalked on the court and divided into numbered partitions . One person manned a wind-up phonograph ; another , who also served as master of ceremonies , held a basket of tickets to correspond to the numbers in the circle . Participants took their places , and when the music started — Roy Acuff ’ s “ Wabash Cannonball ” or some other lively piece — they walked around the circular path . When the music stopped , so did they — and the lucky person standing on the number of the ticket drawn from the basket won one of the many homemade cakes donated by the finest cooks in the community . The ticket was