The Candy man can

Judging the amount of candy you're going to need for Halloween is a dark art.
It's always iffy and scary.
Yesterday, I got a frantic call from my daughter who had three little monsters to dress for Trick-or-Treating at school and in the neighborhood and at various events and couldn't get to the store.

She was afraid she'd run out of candy so she wanted me to pick up some more.
No problem except I'd just finished my own last-minute run even though I thought I'd bought plenty early on.
I panicked mid-afternoon.
I had these visions of hordes of little spooks coming to the door and finding an empty bowl. I saw myself combing the cupboards for a forgotten sweet, maybe a stale cooky.
So off I went to Walmart to buy two more bags, telling myself I could always save it and use it for Christmas stockings if I bought carefully.
Then, for Kari, I headed to Costco for a great BIG bag of candy.
Both times, I was extraordinarily nervous on the drive over.
I imagined everybody in town doing the same thing and everybody fighting over one last bag.
My heart beat fast and I hurried in, glancing suspiciously at the people on all sides of me. I hustled.
There! The prize!
I grabbed my sugar-loaded treats and headed for the check-out counter.
I was going to be all right.
Later, when the doorbell began to ring I was a little miserly. I gave each ghoul and witch and zombie one Tootsie Roll, one Hershey's snack-size bar, one sucker.
Marc, on the other hand, was generous.
He liberally handed over several sweets at a time.
"What are you doing?" I gasped as the candy level dropped rapidly.
"Oh, they're so cute," he said.
"One, just one!" I said. "I don't want to run out."
So it is now that Halloween's over and I have about four bags of candy left.
It's way too much to have about when there's a sweet-tooth grandma loose in the house.
And I can't save it for next year because it'll get old and it'll never be enough. I just know it.