Pittsburgh’s got nothin’ on a rural Halloween

October is by far the best month of the year. I start to get excited as early as the beginning… October is by far the best month of the year. I start to get excited as early as the beginning of August just knowing that it will be here soon. Who can argue with crisp, sweater weather, red and orange leaves and the knowledge that in a month there will be a beautiful blanket of snow on the ground — but not just yet. October’s got all the right stuff.

And in October, more than any other month, I get nostalgic for home. Sadly, the city just doesn’t do justice to this, the most wonderful time of year (sorry, all you Christmas fans). And with Halloween fast approaching, the unfortunate contrast between city October and rural October is becoming apparent.

Although I know many city-dwellers who would be willing to argue with me, cracked concrete and traffic lights just can’t be as charming as winding country roads and cornfields in autumn. And if stating those obvious facts isn’t enough, especially for my rurally-bred-turned-city-loving friends, I’ll offer my trump card: pumpkins.

There’s something to be said for the way rural communities handle their pumpkins that the city will never be able to replicate.

Just turn on your television: There’s rural news coverage of students growing prize-winning pumpkins for their town fairs. There are human-interest stories of cute farming couples opening roadside stands to sell hundreds of the gourds in all shapes and sizes to eager families. They place “pumpkins ahead” signs along the road, miles before the stand will appear around a tree-lined bend, and parents unload truckloads of children to pick out the perfect pumpkins for jack-o’-lanterns.

Not only will you not find a pumpkin stand on the corner of Forbes and Atwood, you’re not likely to find a pumpkin at all. And if you do find a lonely jack-o’-lantern grinning maliciously at you, it will never have the same spirit as what you’d find in the country.

Compare a gap-toothed pumpkin face staring at you from a porch in South Oakland to a jagged-mouthed jack-o’-lantern in rural PA. The Oakland pumpkin is sitting next to a ratty, cigarette-burned couch. Its wide eyes are staring at a street littered with beer cans from the previous night’s party and the random garbage left over from the bags that split during trash collection two days prior.

The rural jack-o’ is sitting under a covered porch beside two wooden chairs. It overlooks a narrow, unlined street and a house with a sprawling front yard that sits next to an open field. This house’s inhabitants have arranged cornstalks and colorful leaves around it in a festive autumnal still life. Its candle will be lit every night until the trick-or-treaters come to visit.

There’s just no contest. Even if we were to place the city pumpkin in a more sophisticated part of the city, it just doesn’t work. You have to drive outside of the city to find authentic pumpkin country; it just can’t be transplanted to an urban environment.

And, at this point, it almost makes me sad to think of Halloween in the city: the overflowing parties, the drunken, costume-clad freshmen stumbling their way back to Towers. Sure, it can be a great time rubbing elbows with a few hundred strangers in masks, but, to me, it’s got nothing on watching a scary movie with your closest, costumed friends, after bobbing for apples in a farmhouse that sits at the end of a long dirt road. Nor does it compare with the guilty thrill you get from going trick-or-treating in a quiet suburban neighborhood, where the homeowners chuckle at you for being too old to trick-or-treat, but give you candy anyway.

I know that I’ll be called a party-pooper — especially by my friends — but I don’t care. This Halloween, if transportation time allows it, I’ll be going home — away from raucous city costume parties — to the comfort and beauty of a small-town environment.

And, if I get my way, I’ll stop at a roadside stand on the way to get what’s left of the season’s pumpkin selection so I can carve one for my parents’ porch.

There is truly something special about October. And, sadly, the city just can’t understand it.