Editor’s note: More than ten years ago, when I was a reporter for Shaw Suburban Media, a reporter wrote a story about a new pet-supply shop that opened, but she wrote it from the perspective of her dog. Was it a little corny? Sure. But it was also cute and quaint and creative. Along those lines, a few years ago for our Halloween edition, I did an interview for Happy Trails with Rags. Rags is a scarecrow. Obviously, it wasn’t real. Scarecrows don’t talk, of course, but it was fun and creative. And if there’s one thing I love, despite that I don’t love Halloween very much (I frankly hate it), it’s creativity. So for this edition of Happy Trails, temporarily deemed Happy Tales, I decided to write about the life of a jack-o’-lantern…from the pumpkin’s perspective. It should go without saying that this is a work of fiction, which it is. I swear. I swear I don’t talk to pumpkins.
To find life, you have to face death. Okay, I’m being dramatic, but what can you expect from someone who recently had the top of his head cut open and his guts spooned out and cooked?
No, I’m not some vile science experiment (unless you call being worked on by a kid with a serrated knife science…uhhh, wait). What I am is a jack-o’-lantern. And my name is, you guessed it, Jack. You can save the grins. That’s my job. It’s my only job. To grin.
It’s a tough life, being a jack-o’-lantern. You’re born in the dirt, grow up in dirt, under leaves, then your skin turns from white to orange. Do you know how creepy that is, by the way? Finally, you’re cut out of the ground, thrown onto a truck, manhandled by children, all resulting in getting your top cut off, your insides scooped out, carved, and stuffed with a burning candle, left to fend off squirrels and raccoons and possums without arms.
And you’re the ones who are scared by my presence. As if!
But being a jack-o’-lantern isn’t so bad. It’s kind of like reincarnation. You live one life, then you get to live another, albeit scaring people, but it beats some of my unfortunate friends who end up pureed in a pie or a can…for years. That’s no way to live.
My particular journey started in a nearby patch, and despite the circumstances, I had a pretty good childhood for a few months. I didn’t move much, though, so I’m a little flat on one side and have a crease on my forehead, but my wife doesn’t seem to mind. She, of course, is plump and even, bright orange, with round eyes and a smile that glows. Her name is Jill. We met in some kid’s cart. I, on the other hand, am tall and narrow and have missing teeth. We did have a few little ones, but, well, I won’t even talk about what happened to them. Haunts me to this day. Haunts, get it? Hahaha! All I’ll say is teenagers and golf clubs and miniature pumpkins are a devastating combination.
All and all, it’s a pretty easy life, after the cutting and goring, of course. My number one job is to pass the day, sitting on the porch steps with my wife, doing our best to create “atmosphere.” In other words, we’re kind of like the sweet, elderly couple you’d see in a movie. Decorative.
Now I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone light a fire burning inside themselves. Well, it’s not ideal, especially when the wax spills over in the wind, but it keeps me warm at night and my eyes and that jagged oblong I’m told is my mouth aglow.
Despite my restive nature, I do occasionally lose my top but that doesn’t happen too often. At least I have a top to lose, unlike the poor fella across the way. He was cut wrong and his top always falls into him, destined to spend the day looking scalped.
No matter my temperament, by Halloween, I’m glowing with a fresh candle and a recessed grin. It’s our night and our jobs to make the first impression on trick-o-treaters. I like to think of my kind as beacons, flickering in the night, attracting sugar-crazed children to thresholds of their next spoils. On Halloween I’m ready, calm, collected, and lit up like a Christmas tree (if you think we jack-o’-lanterns have it bad, you should hear about those poor saps).
