Jack-o’-Lantern has spent centuries wandering with nothing but a single ember to light his way. This October he settles onto a hay bale at Steam Pump Ranch to talk about dark skies, Halloween safety, pumpkin-eating javelinas, and why a warm porch light is one of the best things a neighbor can offer.
Folkloric Jack-o’-Lantern smiling at dusk on an Arizona ranch, with adobe buildings, saguaros, a horse, carved pumpkins, and stars appearing over the mountains.
The last of the sun slides off Pusch Ridge the way it does every October evening, pink first, then violet, then gone. At Steam Pump Ranch, the old adobe walls hold onto the day’s warmth a little longer than the air does. That’s where we find him, sitting on a hay bale near the fence line, a paring knife in one hand and a half-carved pumpkin balanced on his knee.
He’s taller than you’d expect, and thinner. His coat has been patched so many times it’s hard to tell what color it started as. At his feet sits a lantern, a pumpkin with a crooked grin, lit from inside by something that glows steadier than any candle. He doesn’t look up right away. He finishes the curve of an eyebrow first.
“Sorry,” he says. “You never leave a face half done. It’s bad manners.”
ILoveOV: You’ve been on the road a long time. For readers who only know you from their front steps, who are you?
Jack: Back in Ireland they called me Stingy Jack, which was fair. I was a clever man and not a generous one. I tricked the Devil a couple of times, and that went about as well as you’d guess. When my time came, heaven wouldn’t take me, and the Devil wouldn’t have me either. He tossed me one ember to see by and sent me off to wander. I hollowed out a turnip to carry it in. That was a few hundred years ago, and I’ve been walking ever since.
ILoveOV: A turnip?
Jack: Have you ever tried carving a turnip? It’s like sculpting a doorknob. When Irish families came to America, they found pumpkins, and I’ve never looked back. Big, bright, forgiving. A pumpkin wants to be a lantern.
ILoveOV: You’ve got deeper roots here than people might think.
Jack: I do, and I only found out when I got here. Pumpkins are squash, and squash was growing in this part of the desert long before anybody carved a face into one. The Hohokam farmed it, along with corn and beans, and they moved water across this whole basin with canals they dug by hand. So when I walk through Oro Valley, I’m visiting family. My lantern’s cousins were thriving here a thousand years before I got my first one.
ILoveOV: Of all the places you could wander, why Oro Valley?
Jack: Look up.
(We do. The first stars are out over the Catalinas, sharp and close.)
Jack: In most towns my light disappears. It gets drowned in parking lots and billboards and floodlights pointed at nothing. Here, your town decided the night sky was worth protecting. So when I walk down a street in Oro Valley, a little light actually means something. People notice it.
They come to the door.
ILoveOV: Isn’t it a little funny, a lantern-carrier praising dark sky rules?
Jack: Not at all. The dark sky folks and I want the same thing. It’s the right amount of light, pointed where people need it, warm instead of harsh, and off when you’re done with it. That’s all a jack-o’-lantern is. It’s a small glow on a step so someone can find their way. I’ve never once needed a floodlight to do my job.
ILoveOV: Halloween falls on a Saturday this year, so the streets should be busy. Any advice for families heading out?
Jack: Plenty. I’ve been walking at night for centuries, and I’d still like to get home in one piece.
Carry a flashlight, even if you think the streetlights are enough, and hand the kids something that glows so drivers can see them. Cross at corners, and stick together. Drivers, slow down on neighborhood streets that night and keep your eyes up. Those little ghosts and superheroes come out from between parked cars faster than you’d think.
And this is the desert, so remember who else is out. Rattlesnakes don’t care that it’s October, and on a warm evening they’re still moving. Stay on sidewalks and paths, keep a light on the ground ahead of you, and don’t let the kids cut through brush or gravel yards in the dark.
ILoveOV: Any complaints about working in the Sonoran Desert?
Jack: Two. First, your heat. A carved pumpkin here can go soft in a few days if the afternoons stay warm. So carve late in the month, keep it in the shade, and don’t be offended if your masterpiece starts to sag.
Second, your javelinas. I say this with respect, but they don’t appreciate art. I once spent an evening on a porch lantern I was genuinely proud of, and by morning it was half eaten, and the herd was gone. Bring your pumpkins in at night or set them somewhere those snouts can’t reach. They will find it. They always find it.
ILoveOV: You mentioned people coming to the door. What does a porch light mean to you?
Jack: It’s an old custom, and one of the best ones you’ve got. A porch light on Halloween says “come on up, you’re welcome here.” Think about what a remarkable thing that is. For one night, a whole street agrees to open their doors to strangers in masks.
Oro Valley has only been a town since 1974. I’ve watched a lot of places become towns, and it’s never really the paperwork. It’s a bunch of porch lights deciding to be neighbors. Every year that decision gets made again, one door at a time.
ILoveOV: You were turned away from everywhere. Does that change how you see a community?
Jack: It’s the only way I see it. I know what it’s like to stand outside a door that won’t open.
So here’s my one request. Some people in this valley will spend Halloween night alone. Maybe they’re new in town, or their kids are grown and live in another state, or they’ve lost someone and the house got quiet. Knock on their door this month. Ask if they want to sit on your porch and hand out candy with you. You’ll be surprised how many say yes. Nobody should have to wander alone if they don’t have to. Take that from somebody who has.
ILoveOV: Have you crossed paths with any of the other characters who’ve visited Oro Valley?
Jack: The Tooth Fairy and I are both on the night shift, so we see each other around. She actually told me about this ranch. She said the families here keep their traditions the way people keep baby teeth in a little box. They hold onto them because they’re small and they matter. She was right.
I also passed a turkey on the way in who looked very nervous about November. I didn’t have the heart to say anything.
ILoveOV: Any last words for Oro Valley before you head back out?
Jack: Keep your skies dark and your porch lights warm. Those two things aren’t in conflict. A good town knows the difference between light that shows off and light that shows the way. Yours seems to know it.
And for goodness’ sake, bring your pumpkins in at night.
He sets the finished pumpkin on the fence post and tips it toward the path, so its grin faces anyone walking in from Oracle Road. Then he picks up his own lantern, tips his hat, and walks east toward the dark shoulder of the Catalinas.
We watch the glow get smaller. Somewhere past the edge of the ranch, it gets hard to tell which light is his and which is just another star coming out over Pusch Ridge.
