Attack of the pumpkin men
Well, as of Tuesday, I’m now down to nine useable fingers. In fact, I can’t give anyone the “finger” anymore with my left hand. Drat. This unfortunate experience obviously coincided with my first attempt at carving a pumpkin. I’ve never understood the excitement of fabricating jack-o’-lanterns and for a long time I thought it was a dumb, useless activity. Now I know it’s not like that at all. It is potentially lethal. As if giving young scouts pocket knives isn’t dangerous enough, do we really need another method for small children to receive lacerations? Halloween should never be an excuse for kids to use sharp tools and play with matches. Every other Wednesday is good enough for me. Since I grew up in Southeast Asia, I never felt the thrill of cutting a hole in a giant orange blob and subsequently cutting a hole in my arm, but I do not feel deprived. In fact, I vowed never to participate in this part of Halloween “fun.” But I got married – and now I’m missing a finger. The gourd-routing tradition stems from the numerous Irish immigrants who flooded the United States back in the 1800s. Ironically, this also coincides with the “Great Canoe Shortage” of 1843. Those Irish folks used to make lanterns out of potatoes, turnips and other farm-fresh produce to scare away evil spirits and occasionally, the French. Upon arriving to the New World, they discovered millions of pumpkins with no feasible use at all. Instead of launching them or exploding them into smithereens, an author-preferred late October pastime, they decided to carve scary faces and light them up. Frightening as the jack-o’-lanterns may have been to passersby that first United States Halloween, nothing beats the initial shock I had when I first stuck my hand into a freshly-opened pumpkin. I can’t even think about it without reverting back to that initial whole-body, convulsive shudder. Eeeew. That feeling alone would be enough to make you figure that the Irish would immediately end their tradition. But no, after a few truckloads of Guinness and a couple centuries of pleasing the many O’Brien children, here we are. Much to my chagrin, pumpkin carving has become an unspoken competition in modern American suburbia. Everyone has to outdo their neighbors by having the best carvings. And now I have to participate. I refuse to carve a face in any pumpkin because of an inherent childhood fear. Someday, a whole heck of a lot of freaky-looking headless dudes will finally locate what they’re missing. Then, starting in North Logan at Elk Ridge Park, they will walk around and attack every household that keeps their porch light bright on the evening of Oct. 31st. So, this year I decided to carve what was supposed to be an owl. Three hours later, I was covered in orange goo, smelled like pumpkin guts and wished I’d purchased the Aflac forelimb redigitation plan. My carving turned out well, but isn’t very owl-like. It actually looks more like an oddly plump Smurf with scoliosis. Or maybe it’s Spongebob with wings. Something like that. Now I can sit back and relax through the rest of November, waiting for my favorite part of Halloween – watching my pumpkin get mushy. I love it when those spooky faces give way to gourd rot and eventually mutate into sad looking, wilted expressions. Then it’s finally time to unpack my explosives. I can’t wait! So, this weekend, when you get that odd temptation to buy a pumpkin for some fun, remember to first think of me. Then think of me with one less finger. Happy Halloween!Garrett Wheeler is a second bachelor’s student in technical theatre design. Contrary to what is written above, he did not cut off a finger this week. It actually was a thumb. Send any comments or column ideas to wheel@cc.usu.edu.