Dear Diary:
In the early 1960s, when I was 11 or 12 years old, Halloween was an anticipated holiday. In my neighborhood of Beekman Place in Manhattan, all children went within their buildings and a “few select” townhouses.
One house was known for a crystal bowl filled with small Lindt chocolate bites, and you were allowed one handful! When I arrived at this house, with my brother, three years my senior, I was dressed as a Cub Scout carrying my bugle.
After I rang the bell, which the maid answered, the lady of the house passed by. Upon seeing me and my bugle, she exclaimed: “Oh, my husband loves music; come upstairs and play something for him and our dinner guests.” My brother (embarrassed, as he was 14) stayed downstairs as I went up the spiral staircase to the second-floor dining room. Around a large table were 16 to 20 adults dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos, with waiters attending them.
The lady asked my name and asked me to play something for her guests and her husband, Irving. I then played taps — poorly, as I was still learning — for Irving Berlin!
On leaving, I was handed a stack of 3.5-ounce chocolate bars with a ribbon around them!
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Because of an editing error, an earlier version of this letter omitted the references to Irving Berlin.