Halloween has always been a favorite holiday — the planning, the decorations, the nighttime wandering from house to house. And while my memories might be a bit rose colored when it comes to contests, costumes and candy, I haven’t forgotten the mischief.

Eggs, shaving cream and toilet paper were essential to every Halloween prankster’s kit during the late 1970s. My hometown even advertised that fines would be attached to each item confiscated. The fees were related to the damage that could result: ten dollars per egg, five dollars per can of shaving cream and two dollars per roll of paper. In the days leading up to Halloween, stores were encouraged not to sell these things to kids. And while this was a bit of a deterrent, it wasn’t truly a roadblock.

At the beginning of October, the planning commenced. A neighborhood boy and I pooled our money and headed down to the IGA. We had a mission: to procure shaving cream before the pre-Halloween sales shut down. At the door, my friend stopped and sent me in alone. Puberty hadn’t hit yet, and his upper lip more closely resembled an apple than a peach. There was no way the clerk would sell to him.

With all the audacity of a middle school girl, I marched right to the aisle and snatched two cans off the shelf. Placing them on the counter next to the register, I announced, “My legs are so terribly hairy. I think I am going to need two cans!”

The clerk looked decidedly unimpressed. “Really?”

“Really. I don’t want the kids at school calling me old gorilla legs.” I met his eyes, daring him to argue. He didn’t; after all, a sale was a sale. But if I fooled anyone, it was only myself.

“$3.78.” He looked like he wanted to say more as I emptied my pockets of coins.

Once outside, we raced down the street and hid the cans in a dry culvert until Halloween night. We were now prepared for the epic shaving cream war between the girls and boys. No vandalism occurred; just smelly kids happily covered with menthol and lime foam.

Saranac Lake in the late 90s was a different story. For a month beforehand, people cautioned me to lock my car and turn on the outdoor lights. One of the first stories recounted was how the Bloomingdale school burned down on Halloween night in 1973. Of course, the storytellers never mentioned that the building was already set to be demolished.

As predicted on the morning of Nov. 1, Main Street’s windows were coated in shaving cream, and smashed pumpkins littered the side streets. This reality played out year after year, even after we moved out of town.

After 19 years, we moved back. My kids excitedly decorated the porch and the lawn. Multiple jack o’lanterns were carved. A cornucopia of candy waited. We were prepped for trick-or-treaters. While a few did come calling, the hordes stayed away.

Slightly disappointed, we turned off the lights. Bill asked, “Aren’t you going to bring in the pumpkins?”

I looked at the flickering, grinning gourds lining the driveway. “Let’s leave them out. They look so festive.”

“Don’t you think they’ll be too much of a temptation?”

“Nah, no one in the neighborhood will smash them. Besides, we are off the beaten path.”

Sure enough, the next day, in the dim morning light, there was a multicolored light flashing in the center of the road. Large chunks of orange lay close by.

“Okay. You were right,” I told Bill. It’s a phrase I try not to use.

“Kids will be kids,” was his response. We tried to identify who might be responsible. Neighborhood pranksters or random teenagers on a joy ride? One or the other, we were sure.

But when we went to pick up the jack-o’-lantern remnants, we realized we were wrong. There were chew marks on the pumpkins and incriminating hoof marks in the yard. Deer.

Halloween nights are much tamer now. Times have changed — some of the most prolific vandals are four-legged creatures. It seems like kids have become more well-mannered, while wildlife has grown bolder.

This year, our pumpkins are still intact, and there isn’t any shaving cream or toilet paper littering the lawn. To the casual observer, it would seem like any other morning. But the best candy is missing from the trick-or-treat bowl. The container was almost full the night before; by morning, it was nearly empty. Bill claims he knows nothing about it. Assuming he’s honest, and after staring down a giant buck in the driveway, I can only come to one possible conclusion. Deer.