This Moment Cost Me $900. I’d Pay It Again Tomorrow.

Take a good look at this picture.

At first glance, you see a classic Halloween scene: a woman in a ridiculous witch outfit handing candy to an adorable little girl in a princess dress.

What you cannot see is the $900 Amazon order that made this moment possible. Or how much sweat was accumulating beneath that costume. Or that my eye makeup had begun migrating south, giving my witch a slightly more disturbing backstory than originally intended.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

Before we moved to Kwajalein, my predecessor explained that Halloween was a major event on our tiny Pacific island. As the incoming “Mrs. Colonel” - what many of our Marshallese neighbors called the command spouse, regardless of her actual name - I needed to prepare.

The American kids on base would trick-or-treat, of course. But hundreds of our Marshallese neighbors would also take the ferry over to join the festivities, quadrupling the number of people arriving at my house with both an empty bag and reasonable expectations.

And when you live in the big house and your husband’s face is hanging in every building on post, those expectations include full-size treats.

Back in the States, this confectionery crisis could be solved with a quick trip to Costco. I could have loaded a cart, thrown in a rotisserie chicken for emotional support, and been home an hour later.

On Kwaj, there was no Costco. There was an ocean.

The local stores couldn’t supply the quantities I needed, so I turned to Amazon, adding dozens of boxes of Skittles, Starburst, and Airheads Xtremes to my cart. Chocolate wouldn’t survive the journey, or October on an island where “fall weather” means sweating while holding an imported pumpkin.

When the total reached $900, I blinked at the screen.

Then I clicked “Place Order” before I could come to my senses.

About a month later, the boxes arrived. I unpacked them all and surveyed my inventory like a tropical Willy Wonka, minus the factory and with considerably more humidity.

Nine hundred full-size treats.

There was no way we would go through all of it.

Friends, we went through all of it.

For hours, kids and parents streamed down my driveway. Music played from my wireless speaker. Costumes bobbed through the crowd. Children spotted the enormous candy bucket and developed the facial expression usually reserved for winning the lottery.

My husband was away, so I handled candy distribution myself. It was hot. It rained a little. My feet hurt. Somewhere around child number 600, I began to understand why Willy Wonka had employees.

And I was having the best time.

Our American and Marshallese neighbors were together, laughing, admiring costumes, helping little ones navigate the crowd. For a few hours, we had somewhere to be together and something simple to enjoy. I’d spent a month wondering whether I had enough candy. Standing there, I was just glad all these people had shown up.

By the end of the night, that $900 felt like money very well spent.

Which is interesting, because there are entire categories of Halloween I would happily eliminate.

Gore. Horror movies. Anything that jumps out of the dark. I do not pay people to frighten me. I have teenagers and a dental insurance plan. There is sufficient suspense in my life.

But costumes? Candy? Neighbors wandering around smiling at one another?

I am enthusiastically available for that.

As a kid, I hauled home pillowcases of candy, assessing which houses understood the assignment. Candy bars: excellent. Apples: concerning. Pennies: inconvenient. Raisins: betrayal.

I took costumes seriously, too. My senior year, my best friend Allison and I turned refrigerator boxes into Massachusetts Turnpike tollbooths, complete with baskets for collecting change. Some girls wanted to look sexy. We chose municipal infrastructure.

These days, we’re back in the States. My kids are older and no longer need me to escort them around the block, prompting “Trick or treat!” when the door opens and “Thank you!” before they flee toward the next porch like costumed fugitives.

I understand the temptation to declare my Halloween service complete. Turn off the porch light. Put on pajamas. Watch The Diplomat without having to pause every four minutes because someone dressed as a chicken is ringing the doorbell.

But I keep thinking about what we say we want.

We want friendlier neighborhoods. We want to know the people around us. We want our kids to feel connected. We want the kind of community where people wave, stop to talk, and notice when someone needs help.

And then, once a year, the neighborhood comes to our door.

With an opening line already prepared.

We don’t have to organize a potluck or find six adults with a mutually available Saturday. People are walking up our driveways, hoping we’ll be glad to see them.

On a military installation, I especially appreciate that opportunity. Rank can make everyday interactions feel formal. A ridiculous costume helps considerably. I want soldiers’ families to know me as someone they’ve laughed with in a driveway, someone they feel comfortable saying hello to again.

This year, I expect to spend around $500 on full-size candy. It’s a lot of money. I know that.

But a welcoming house works on a fun-size budget, too. Pull a chair into the driveway. Ask a kid about her costume. Wave to the parents hanging back on the sidewalk. Introduce yourself to the neighbor you currently know only as “the guy who always forgets trash day.”

Maybe next week you wave because now you know his name. Maybe the next conversation happens at the mailbox, without either of you dressed as a banana. You’re already past the awkward introduction. The banana took care of that.

Community costs us something. Sometimes money. Often time. Usually a little convenience. Somebody has to extend the invitation, learn the name, or linger a few minutes longer.

I’ve spent enough years starting over in new places to know how much those small efforts matter. I’ve been the person hoping someone would notice me. I’ve also been the person who almost stayed inside and missed a chance to connect.

So I’m buying the candy.

I’ll put on something ridiculous, drag out a chair, and see who walks up the driveway. My laundry, work emails, and Netflix show will still be there later. The laundry has been especially loyal.

There aren’t many nights when community comes right to your door.

I want to be there when it knocks.