THE LITTLE tyke shyly made his way up my stairs Monday night, slowly shifting his cowboy hat for a better view of the candy bounty awaiting.

Very politely, he twice said "Thank you" without his mother's prompting before reaching into the bowl and taking both a candy bar and a peanut-butter cup.

What instantly struck a long-forgotten chord was the way he separated the two in his bag: candy bar with others like it to the right, peanut-butter cups to the left.

In an instant, I was back in the trick-or-treating of my youth, reveling in the rapture that only candy can give a 10-year-old.

I mentioned the moment during a chat with several folks the following day, and wasn't surprised to start a long discussion of the different habits, approaches and stories from Halloweens past.

One thing in common was the sorting process we all went through at the end of the evening.

To start with, we all agreed that in the past, the actual candy-collecting on Halloween night was a much bigger deal.

Even though I claim hometown kinship to the Northern Neck, my youngest days--up to the sixth grade--were spent in a huge subdivision near what became Regency Square Mall in Richmond.

Very clearly, I remember walking blocks and blocks, possibly miles, on Halloween nights, knocking on every door as I traveled from one subdivision to the next.

On those evenings, I recall heading out with a large grocery bag to collect my loot.

Not the small, wimpy plastic bags they have now. But the large, deep and double-layered brown bags .

Some evenings, I remember coming home halfway through to dump a full bag of candy and grab an empty one to continue candy collecting.

That second bag rarely got full. But thinking back now, I smile at the optimism that led me to believe there was another bagful of candy out there, just waiting for me to collect it.

Another Halloween night ritual we all mentioned was the candy sorting and trading once we got home.