There’s this brief, golden stretch between the start of school and Thanksgiving when Forest Park almost feels like it has its act together, especially during these couple of miraculous weeks when the weather is polite. The air smells like competence. There’s soup on a stove somewhere. It’s the closest thing we’re getting to the normal social order all year.
Let’s start with Halloween costumes because 2025 is shaping up to be a strong contender for the “What Were We Thinking?” Hall of Fame. Thanks to the “Summer of AI,” I fully expect a wave of ChatGPT costumes — silver jumpsuits, glowing eyes, and kids saying, “I cannot feel love but I can optimize it.” Please, no. That’s not trick-or-treating; that’s a cry for help.
You’ll also see group costumes, mostly of various Taylor Swift eras, and at least three families on your block doing “Barbenheimer,” even though that was last year’s joke. Hey, they spent a bunch and the customers all fit the next kid down. For couples: skip the topical stuff. Be a fork and a spoon. Be a squirrel and an acorn. Be two people who are too tired to swipe left *or* right. Or pull on a mask and be an authority figure ashamed to admit that’s the job they took. For the most honest version of that costume, just put a paper bag over your head like a Bears fan trotting out an old joke.
Meanwhile, home decorations are once again an arms race. A few pumpkins used to say “festive.” Now we’ve got 12-foot skeletons, animatronic zombies, and inflatable ghosts that could double as parade floats. Someone in town has already synchronized their front yard to “Thriller,” which means the rest of us will hear muffled Vincent Price laughter through our car radios until Thanksgiving. (I just had an idea to wire one of those speakers into a Santa, but we’ll save that nightmare for next month.)
It’s impressive, sure — but also exhausting. Fall decorating used to be a few mutilated pumpkins and inceptive farm market gourds and corn. Now it’s a competitive sport. Every cul-de-sac looks like a cross between The Nightmare Before Christmas and a Lowe’s clearance aisle. I say this with love, and also as someone who will definitely impulse-buy a $60 light-up pumpkin at Menards the minute it hits the endcap.
And then there’s Oktoberfest. We need to talk about Oktoberfest. It’s become the German equivalent of St. Patrick’s Day — which, as regular readers know, I have strong feelings about. (The abridged version: if your “heritage celebration” involves green beer and street vomiting, you’re doing it wrong.) Oktoberfest started as a royal wedding reception, not a mass challenge to see how many brats you can consume before your lederhosen surrender. Yet every brewery from Berwyn to Brookfield now hosts “Das Mega Brat Party” with some guy named Todd playing polka covers of Bon Jovi.
Let’s all just admit that “cultural appreciation” loses a little dignity when it comes in a souvenir stein.
Still — griping aside — I adore this time of year. The light turns gold and slants lower. The smell of wet leaves, wood smoke, and bad decisions at boozy brunch hits just right. And for a few brief weeks, life slows down enough to notice it’s happening.
Which brings me to my annual appeal to the Great Pumpkin, benevolent spirit of the season and patron saint of manageable expectations.
Dear Great Pumpkin,
I ask not for wealth or fame or even a Bears playoff berth (though if you’ve got a spare miracle to set up the annual soul-crushing, feel free). I ask only this:
1. Keep the weather cool enough for sweaters but warm enough to pretend we don’t need heat yet.
2. Stop people from using “pumpkin spice” as a verb.
3. Ensure that no Forest Park child requires a police explanation for their costume.
4. Let a person play golf without long johns until at least Veterans Day. Got to be some upside to climate change, and for me that’s the one.
5. Prevent anyone from posting a “30 Days of Gratitude” list before Halloween, and if you’re feeling generous, preferably ever.
It’s not much to ask. Believe me, I have a much longer list for Santa.