I have a real “thing” about trick-or-treat pails. My parents had a pumpkin pail for me since before I was born. One of those old blow molds, with a puffy witch on the back. The pumpkin’s facial features were bumpy; tons of raised little dots stippled in his eyes, nose, and mouth. His teeth were more square than the ones you see today, and his handle was thicker. I’m not sure what ever happened to him, but I know he got a lot of use from me between the ages of four and seven. When I was eight, however, what can only be described as a life-altering trick-or-treat pail event happened. The year was 1995. I’m not sure what month it was, but I’m thinking it was teeny bit on the “early” side for Halloween things. I walked into WalMart with my parents and my maternal grandfather, who lived with us at the time, and, like any kid, immediately found some stuffed animal that I wanted someone to buy for me. My grandfather agreed to it without much coaxing; that’s just how he was. But then, we ...