My first Halloween memory sits somewhere around 1995 or 1996 in Pottery Addition, just north of Steubenville. I was 4 or 5, dressed as the Blue Power Ranger — the kind of plastic mask that fogged up every time you breathed.

My grandfather, my nana, my mom and my mom’s friend all walked with us that night. Her daughter, about a year younger than me, was dressed as a fairy — glittery wings, a tiara and a pink tutu that caught the streetlight like it was made of spun sugar. The air smelled like leaves and candle smoke. We went door to door with our plastic pumpkins, our parents chatting on the sidewalk while we darted up each porch.

That’s how Halloween used to be — a little wild, but still watched over. The youngest kids walked hand-in-hand with parents and grandparents, learning that the dark could be exciting instead of scary. By middle school, you might have earned a little freedom — going with friends, promising to stick together, to stay on familiar streets, to be home by nine.

Halloween was a night of trust — between children and parents, between neighbors and the world outside the front door. Somewhere along the way, that trust gave way to caution, and the night, itself, started to change.

These days, Halloween looks a little different. Trick-or-treat hours start earlier, ending before the sun has even set. Many families head to well-lit parking lots for trunk-or-treat events, where children move from car to car, collecting candy in perfect safety.

I understand why — parents want their kids to be protected, police want to avoid accidents and communities want order. But in making the night safer, we’ve also made it brighter, tidier and somehow smaller.

Halloween was meant to be a night — a moment when the world tilted just enough for imagination to take over. The porch lights glowed like stars, the air smelled of leaves and smoke and every shadow felt alive. There was a lesson in that small, safe darkness — a chance to learn courage and curiosity at once.

When we bring everything into daylight, we lose a little of that magic. The night doesn’t feel like an adventure anymore; it feels like an errand.

That might have been Halloween’s quiet lesson — it balanced innocence and adventure, rules and rebellion, giving kids a safe way to test the edges of the world.

It wasn’t just about candy, either. Halloween used to carry a little mischief in its bones — harmless pranks that gave the night its spark. Ding-dong-ditch, toilet-papered trees, a pumpkin or two smashed in the street.

These weren’t acts of malice; they were small experiments in growing up. Kids testing limits, learning boundaries, laughing as they ran. If an adult caught them, there might be a lecture, maybe even a broom and a garbage bag to make it right.

But after the porch light went out, most grown-ups would chuckle and remember their own Halloweens. Even the police might roll by with a wink and a reminder to head home before your luck ran out.

Now, that kind of mischief hardly stands a chance. Every porch has a camera, every prank becomes evidence. A moment that once taught responsibility through experience now risks becoming a permanent digital record.

We haven’t just made Halloween safer — we’ve made it quieter. The night that once taught kids to be bold, to explore, to trust their instincts, has become something to manage, schedule and sanitize.

People sometimes tell me I’m just being nostalgic, that I’m romanticizing my own childhood. Perhaps they’re right — but even so, something real has shifted.

The social change from the early 1990s to now is enormous. Even at my age — 34 — I grew up before cell phones and constant connectivity. I was sent outside to play and told to come home when the streetlights came on. That simple rule carried faith that the world was safe enough to explore — and that we’d still find our way home.

Today’s children live in a different kind of world. They have tracking apps, safety nets, constant contact — but little freedom. In our effort to protect them from danger, we’ve also protected them from discovery.

Childhood used to be full of small risks — scraped knees, whispered dares and laughter that echoed through the dark. Now, much of that has been replaced by caution, and caution by supervision. We’ve built a world where children are always seen, but not always known.

That’s why I think Halloween deserves just a little more — not necessarily a day off, but a bit more reverence for what it represents: A night of imagination and courage, where kids can dress up, step outside and meet the unknown with laughter.

Its strength has always been that it isn’t a formal holiday. It slips into the week quietly, lighting classrooms and neighborhoods alike. Kids go to school buzzing with excitement, swapping stories about costumes, planning their routes, boasting about who will bring home the biggest haul.

It’s communal in a way few things are anymore — not organized, not online, just shared.

And that’s the lesson worth remembering. Halloween doesn’t need more control; it needs more trust.

It reminds us that safety isn’t the same thing as stillness, and that childhood needs room to wander, to wonder, to grow.

So this year, as the porch lights flicker on and the streets fill with laughter, maybe step back a little — and let the night belong to them, the way it once belonged to us, under the same October sky, where the air still smells faintly of leaves and candle smoke.

(Castner, a Steubenville native and graduate of Steubenville High School, values the heritage of the Ohio Valley.)