The following is a reprint of a column first published in 2010.

In the 20 years that I have lived here, I have yet to see a single trick-or-treater come to my door.

Not one.

At first, I thought perhaps parents had finally woken to the fact that what is gleefully allowed on Halloween rather flies in the face of responsible child rearing: encouraging one’s flesh and blood to go into the night with other children to unfamiliar homes and take candy from complete strangers who, like paying off the mob for protection, bow to extortion for the fear of an egg or toilet paper retaliation.

Then a friend of mine pointed out the obvious.

“Well, good Lord, look at the length of your driveway!” she exclaimed. “What kid is going to walk down that?”

It should be said that my driveway is an unpaved 10th of a mile long. There are no lights to guide one’s way, and the house cannot be seen from our quiet country street.

What’s creepier, more fun than that?

“Are you telling me that kids won’t walk a few feet nowadays?” I replied, incredulous.

“Course not,” she chirped. “Parents drive kids through neighborhoods they know and wait for them in the car. Nobody walks anymore. Particularly to your house.”

That stung because my house is known, by my neighbors, the FedEx guy and pretty much everyone else in the general area except, evidently, the realtor who sold it to me, as “The Crock Pot House.” This is because the previous owner, an alleged drug dealer with a shady reputation and even shadier contacts, was found dead in the hot tub on the upstairs deck after being reported missing for more than five days.

Yes, the hot tub was on the entire time.

No, of course it’s not still there.

I don’t know if there is a ghost, but Paul and I decided if we see one, we’ll call him “Stew.”

At any rate, this gives me another fine opportunity to shake my bony finger and point out another smug difference between my childhood and “these kids today.”

For heaven’s sake, what better destination on a dark Halloween night than apprehensively walking, giggling and shrieking with your friends toward a true Boo Radley-type residence in the middle of the country — down a pitch-black driveway that goes forever, flanked by trees in which roost owls?

And to top it off, a guy died there!

But just in case some of you kids have now decided to visit my “Little Crack House on the Prairie,” be forewarned: I’m a bit of a “foodie” who shuns both red meat and poultry, and thinks corn syrup and aspartame run through the veins of Beelzebub, so don’t think you’re going to get any tooth-rotting treat from me.

You’ll be given a nice tuna sandwich on whole wheat, and you’ll be grateful.

Or I’ll send Stew to follow you home.