Where Basements Hide The Past,

 

'The front lawn pumpkin patch and Halloween decoration wars have begun in earnest they have' I can almost hear myself mutter this as I unselfconsciously try to regulate my speedwalking past an enormous inflatable baby yoda in front of a midcentury split level.

A faux churchyard cemetery that would have easily found a place in an Ed Wood film is a few doors down and it just goes on from there. Werewolves, monsters hanging from scaffolds, cauldrons and every manner of macabre set decoration one finds somewhat out-of-place in this self-professed religiously conservative community,   Even my father mentioned it yesterday as we conducted our Saturday morning drive around town to the garage sales and junk picking ho-downs in which we truly thrive. I found a stunning set of vintage Royal Doulton china from which I still reel, but that's not for here.

The Halloween decoration yard wars sets people up for the spectacle that is about to be a glittering Holiday Wonderland where skyrocketing energy prices is something for which Europeans and lesser states concern themselves.  Baby Yoda can easily segue from one holiday theme into the other and for many aesthetically challenged, baby Yoda has become something of a yearlong fixture next to their junk-picked wagon wheel.

The batshit Packers fan who built the unsightly fence I am sure I mentioned is trying to compensate with a festival of pumpkins on his porch, but the lack of any cheering mums suggests he may have spent his yearly outdoor budget on the hideous property dividing eyesore or he could be, as the Packers flag suggests, merely and far more likely, a simple asshole. 

The freaks with the giant spiders and spiderwebs constructed in their yard should promptly find a therapist with enough time, alcohol a bewildering willingness to listen to them blather on about their damaged childhood.

For my daily saunters around the childhood neighborhood these decorations and the not-so kind-spirited competition they expose serve as the crescendo of a summer of nosey, gossipy busy-bodiness which must sadly be placed on its shelf until the warming Spring sun makes the pathways of judgment, comment and shared opinion passable once more.  For every season.