I don’t know who started the Halloween arms race in the Park Cities, but I have a feeling she lives on your block. You know her. While the rest of us were happy with a few pumpkins and a wreath, she decided Halloween needed to become an Olympic event. And here’s where we went wrong: no one told her to settle down. Instead, we took it as a challenge. Before we knew it, we were all competing in an event no one remembers entering.
The first sign things have gotten out of hand is the front porch. Gone are the days of a couple of orange pumpkins from the grocery store. Now there are Jarrahdales, Porcelain Dolls, Cinderellas and Fairytales cascading down the steps, mixed with gourds and greenery. Somewhere along the way, buying a pumpkin became more complicated than ordering a bottle of wine.
Then there’s Pumpkin Day, one of my favorite school traditions when my kids were younger. The premise was simple: children decorated pumpkins and brought them to school. At least that was my understanding.
I saw creations that could intimidate set designers. One family turned a pumpkin into a Callaway golf bag. There were elaborate scenes involving multiple pumpkins and enough engineering that I wondered whether the child had been allowed in the room.
I was hardly innocent. If Alexis or Blake had a vision, I financed it. Paint, feathers, glitter, glue, whatever they needed. But I drew the line at making it for them. Their pumpkins were clearly constructed by children.
I was less restrained with costumes. One year Alexis was Cleopatra and tiny Blake was King Tut, complete with custom costumes that I spent far too much money on. They still talk about them, so I’m counting that as a parenting win.
Unfortunately, Blake also remembers what I wouldn’t buy.
For years, he begged me to cover our yard in severed limbs and bloody body parts that would have made our house look like an active crime scene. I couldn’t bring myself to spend money on a fake dismembered leg. Other Park Cities families had no such reservations, creating haunted houses that became neighborhood destinations.
Inevitably, Park Cities Chatter lights up with parents whose small children are terrified by a gruesome house and require a three-block detour. When you’re four, a severed head hanging from a tree doesn’t exactly read as whimsical seasonal décor.
Then there’s the candy.
I was recently at CVS behind three SMU students buying beer and Halloween candy. They were having a great time until the bag of Mars chocolates rang up. Suddenly, they were conducting a financial review.
After seeing the price, the candy went back. The beer stayed. And just like that, I had renewed confidence in the next generation.
By Halloween night, neighborhood children have developed an intelligence network that would impress the CIA. They know who has full-size candy bars, where the good chocolate is and which houses aren’t worth the walk. Word travels fast when someone breaks out king-size Snickers. It travels even faster when someone tries to pass off raisins or pencils.
So yes, we take Halloween too seriously around here. Our pumpkins have pedigrees, our school projects require engineering degrees, our yards force preschoolers to find alternate routes home, and the good candy requires its own line item in the family budget.
All that’s left is to turn on the porch light and hope the woman who started all of this is happy. After putting us through this, she’d better be handing out full-size candy bars.
Martha Jackson, host of The Bubble Lounge Podcast, has lived in University Park for 20 years. She’s passionate about connecting with fellow moms, supporting local businesses, and finding humor in the chaos. You can find her at bubblelounge.net and on Instagram @bubbleloungepodcast.
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