The Origin of Jack-o’-Lantern: From Turnip to Pumpkin

Every October, Americans head to the pumpkin patch, pick out a nice round pumpkin, carve a toothy grin into it, and stick a candle inside. It’s a national Halloween ritual. This year, my pumpkin came from the Costco pumpkin patch.

A close-up view of a sculpted head resembling a mask, with rough textures, a subtly painted face, and exaggerated facial features, including deep-set eyes and a prominent mouth.
Irish ghost turnip

Here’s a little Halloween trivia that might make you look twice at the produce aisle: The original Jack-o’-lanterns were turnips.

That’s right. Before pumpkins became Halloween celebrities, turnips did the heavy lifting.

The tradition goes back to Ireland and Scotland, where people carved frightening faces into turnips, potatoes, and other root vegetables. They hollowed them out, placed a candle or burning ember inside, and set them near doorways or windows.

The lanterns provided light, but their frightening faces also protected against wandering spirits. According to Celtic tradition, the night of October 31 marked Samhain, a time when the boundary between the living and the dead supposedly grew thin.

Who was Jack?

According to Irish folklore, Jack was a rather unpleasant fellow who tricked the Devil not once, but twice.

In one version of the story, Jack persuaded the Devil to turn himself into a coin so Jack could pay for a drink. Instead of spending the coin, Jack slipped it into his pocket beside a silver cross, trapping the Devil.

Jack eventually released him after extracting a promise that the Devil wouldn’t claim his soul.

Unfortunately, Jack’s cleverness didn’t earn him any points after death. Heaven wouldn’t take him. So Jack found himself wandering in darkness, carrying a lump of burning coal the Devil had tossed him.

Jack placed the coal inside a hollowed-out turnip to light his way.

The legend of Jack of the Lantern was born. Over time, the name became Jack-o’-lantern.

The National Museum of Ireland displays a plaster cast of a carved turnip lantern donated in 1943. The original came from County Donegal and represented a local Halloween tradition around 1900.

Enter the pumpkin.

When Irish immigrants arrived in America during the 19th century, they brought their Halloween traditions with them. They soon discovered an abundance of pumpkins.

A cartoon depicting a man presenting various creatively designed jack-o'-lantern alternatives to a panel of three men at a conference table, with one man expressing disappointment over abandoning traditional pumpkins.

Pumpkins were plentiful, much larger and easier to carve than turnips. Imagine trying to scoop out a turnip with a kitchen spoon.

The pumpkin replaced the turnip as America’s Halloween decoration of choice.

Today, we spend millions of dollars on pumpkins, carving kits, decorations, and pumpkin-flavored everything. The humble turnip lost its place in Halloween history.

The next time you carve a pumpkin, remember its less glamorous predecessor.

The Jack-o’-lantern didn’t begin as a cheerful orange pumpkin sitting on a suburban porch. It began as a sinister-looking root vegetable intended to frighten away the spirits of the dead.

The turnip deserves a little recognition.

I’ll stick with my pumpkin.

Navigating Happiness: Lessons Across Generations

Raymond Notaro grew up in Clinton, Massachusetts, a small town (Pop. 15,000) with a blue-collar character and, as he describes it, a rougher edge. He and I come from different generations, but our conversations kept bringing us back to a familiar place: the experiences that shape us may look different across generations, yet the lessons learned remain the same.

Our intergenerational writing class is exploring “The Pursuit of Happiness.” Twenty University of Colorado upperclass students each pair up with 20 community members. We do some in-class writing in response to prompts, then discuss what comes to mind.

When Ray and I compared our similar interpretations of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, I wondered whether happiness might have less to do with climbing toward the top than with figuring out when we have enough.

We’re both pursuing happiness. Ray figured out what took me seven decades to learn.

At 73, I’ve spent a lifetime wandering Superman’s American Way. You know, “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive,” bigger is better than weaker, richer is better than poorer, winning is better than losing as we fight for “Truth, Justice, and the American Way.”

Ray approaches Maslow from a different direction. Fifty-two years younger than me, Ray has a head start on minimalist happiness. He describes self-actualization as meeting his physiological and safety needs and doesn’t need to climb any higher.

“Give me a granola bar, a bottle of water, a place to sleep, and I’m good,” he told me. Ray likes to camp. He recounted a recent outing to the Bridger-Teton National Forest. “We didn’t think about going to Grand Teton National Park or Yellowstone.”

I worked, accumulated possessions, collected baseball cards, and filled my days with the ordinary stuff of life, wondering if I needed more. I thought of self-actualization as a point in life I would reach through experience, accomplishment, and accumulation. Like many Americans, I’d spent decades adding layers to my life.

Now I’m peeling them away.

Ray won’t have layers to shed.

After being reminded how a 1,000-year flood or an urban wildfire can wipe out the material aspects of life, Swedish death cleaning has become part of my routine. I’m sorting through possessions, simplifying my surroundings, and reconsidering what I need to get by. I’m a regular on Facebook Marketplace.

Meeting with Ray reinforced my downward slide and my happiness in the basics: physical needs, safety, and striving for the Dalai Lama’s notion of nothingness.

I accumulated far more than I ever needed. I’ve been letting go.

I envy Ray.

“I’m majoring in International Relations.” He has studied in Germany and wants to visit every country. He showed me a metal ring with charms his mother gave him from the 21 countries he’s visited. “I want a job that allows me to travel. I’m filling out an application to study abroad again.”

Ray’s happy to claw his way toward the middle of Maslow’s hierarchy, laying the foundation for a life that doesn’t require much more than enough to create meaningful experiences.

I made it to the top, but I had to stop.

I ran out of time.

Ray hasn’t, and he’s not wasting his.

Our paths look different, but we’re heading toward a similar understanding of happiness. Ray is building a life around having just enough. I learned that my enough is too much after a lifetime of wanting more.

Our conversation led us to the people who have taught us how to live. Ray played soccer for the Clinton High School Gaels and started all four years. The coaches named him to the Midland Wachusett League All-Conference team. He had opportunities to play at the next level at the University of New England or Stonehill.

“I needed to get out of Clinton,” he said about moving out of his hometown. “I came out for a ski trip. Visited Boulder and decided on CU. Good vibe here. Clinton isn’t that far away, really. I’ll be going home for a reunion with my family and friends at the end of October for my birthday.”

I asked Ray to tell me about an adult outside his family who had a positive influence on him and instilled a lesson he still carries today.

He told me about his four-year physical education teacher, Mr. Paul Zapantis.

“Mr. Zapantis chaperoned a high school trip to Europe my senior year. He’s an adult I could talk to in confidence. He taught and also worked at the funeral home. I could visit him there.”

In small towns, people often work more than one job. When I lived in Lander, a town of 7,000, I worked in the city administration and also covered sports for the twice-weekly local paper.

“Clinton’s a rough town.” On account of that, Ray explained that his high school maintained strict rules. Authority figures enforced discipline and expected students to follow directions. Zapantis took a different approach. “He trusted us.”

Rather than relying on rules and punishment, Zapantis treated young people with respect. He set expectations and trusted his students to meet them. Ray remembers that Zapantis established a standard students didn’t want to disappoint.

“Some adults are scary. Mr. Zapantis is a good guy. When we came back from Europe, he invited us out for breakfast at Lou’s Diner. Six in the morning. We all showed up. He gave me the travel bug.”

Ray told me about the biggest lesson he learned from studying abroad in Germany in 2025.

“A group of us went to Munich for Oktoberfest.” He recalled. “A bunch of Dutch guys were singing a song about Max Verstappen [a well-known Formula 1 race car driver from the Netherlands]. We joined in the fun. The police showed up and detained us, not for drinking. One of the Dutch kids looked like he gave the Nazi salute [After World War II, the German government criminalized anything promoting Nazism]. They detained me, but they mostly wanted the Dutch kid.”

What struck me about Ray’s story is that he realized what he had learned from Zapantis extends to a higher level. In environments like his school and in Germany, where strict rules governed much of life, there’s a distinction between demanding good behavior and inspiring it. It’s important to build relationships, but to act responsibly.

Ray told me that respect works both ways. An adult who respects a young person sends a message that the young person matters, that someone believes in them, and that they have a responsibility to live up to that belief.

Zapantis raised the bar by trusting his students to reach it.

Ray also spoke about his supportive family. His father’s family immigrated from Sardinia, while his mother’s roots reach back to Ireland. Their experiences reminded me of my family’s history as Japanese immigrants. Our families came from different parts of the world, but both encountered the challenges of finding acceptance and belonging in America.

Our shared experiences gave me another point of connection with Ray. Our families carried their cultural traditions and experiences into an America that didn’t always welcome immigrants with open arms. The details differ, but the desire to belong, be treated fairly, be respected, and build a secure life crosses generations.

That’s another reason Ray’s story about Zapantis resonated with me. Respect shapes how people, young and old, should see themself, how they treat others, and what they expect from the world.

As Ray and I talked, I kept returning to our opposite, yet similar approaches to Maslow’s hierarchy. I began my journey believing that happiness meant being like Superman, reaching higher, achieving more, accumulating the rewards of life.

Ray is reimagining Superman’s American Way. He’s content to establish a solid foundation and build a life around what he considers essential.

The pursuit of happiness doesn’t necessarily mean climbing higher or grasping for more.

Ray is beginning with the basics. I’m trying to return to them. Our conversation reminded me that happiness isn’t a destination reserved for the accomplished or those who have accumulated the most.

For Ray, the lesson began with a teacher who trusted him enough to act respectfully and to do no harm. For me, it’s taken decades of living, collecting, and now letting go to recognize how much of life depends on what we give one another, rather than take.

I doubt that I’ll reach the Dalai Lama’s nothingness because I spend too much time watching Netflix and sports. Ray has a better chance of traveling to 172 remaining nations. That’s beside the point. Our paths don’t have to match for the lessons to connect.

Ray carries Mr. Zapantis’s influence forward by treating people with respect. He extends the trust that helped shape him. Knowing a caring adult believed in you, and then carrying that belief into the lives of others, may be the most enduring form of happiness.

I spent much of my life believing happiness awaited me near the top of Maslow’s mountain. Ray, 50 years younger, reminded me that the top is closer to the ground.

Ray has a granola bar, a bottle of water, a room, and an airplane ticket. I have another carload of boxes I’m packing to donate to the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming.

The way up is climbing down.

How Baby Boomers Became Mobile Device Addicts Like Gen Z

A boy excitedly shows an old radio he found at an antique mall to an elderly man sitting in a chair, who is smiling and holding a smartphone. A dog rests on the floor nearby.

I saw a segment on the NBC Evening News saying Baby Boomers are becoming just as addicted to their mobile devices as Gen Z.

I don’t know why that’s surprising.

We Boomers have been connected since puberty.

When I was in junior high, I called a radio station, and for being the first to know that the Nile is the longest river in the world, I won a generic transistor radio in a brown leather case. I carried that little radio everywhere, listening to the Beatles through a single mono earphone.

Today’s teenagers walk around with wireless earbuds.

A vintage transistor radio, red and silver in color, with a volume control and an earphone connected, next to a black carrying case.

I blocked out the world with a transistor radio and a wire hanging out of my ear.

Same addiction. Better sound.

My grandmother later brought home a battery-operated Sony Micro TV from a vacation in Japan. She brought it on picnics so my grandfather could watch baseball.

A collection of vintage electronics including a black leather camera bag, a brown camera, a small vintage Sony television with a retractable antenna, and additional accessories laid on a floral patterned fabric.

We took television with us on family outings before anyone had heard of streaming.

In the 1970s, I majored in science. The curriculum expected to do math. Texas Instruments introduced one of the first handheld electronic calculators. The school banned them from the classroom.

We had to do the calculations with a slide rule, pencil, and paper.

Educators already knew where this would be headed, and still do. In my CU intergenerational writing class, the department established ground rules for AI use. All the writing assignments are composed by hand in class.

Cover of an IBM Mag Card II Typewriter operating instructions manual featuring the typewriter on a table and a data processor unit or card reader beside it.

When I entered the workforce in 1977, the City of Gillette used Fortran-sized magnetic cards to store correspondence that could be typed on an IBM Selectric typewriter at the push of a button.

When I moved to Lander, I was in charge and convinced the city to buy a Lanier word processor that stored information on proprietary floppy disks. I had a DOS-based computer that ran Word Perfect without Windows.

A vintage portable electronic typewriter with a built-in LCD screen and a QWERTY keyboard.

I also wrote for the local Lander newspaper. In the late 1980s, the paper had networked Macintosh Model SE computers together and published digitally.

I got my first laptop, a TRS-80 Model 100 and an external hard drive.

This was cutting-edge technology.

The dot-matrix printer sounded like a small appliance factory every time you printed a page.

Then America Online started mailing its internet software on CDs. The newspaper office had a telephone modem cradle, and we could transmit stories electronically.

A package containing an AOL Gold Mini-ROM CD, featuring a promotional offer for 100 free hours of internet access, highlighting compatibility with Windows and Macintosh.

Remember the sound of a dial-up connection?

Rheeeeeee!

A miracle.

By the 1990s, I was living in Boulder, where Indra was an early internet service provider. I got my first email account. It’s now out of business, but I still use my adoecos handle on Yahoo! 

Technology accelerated.

In the early 1990s, I bought a bulky Nokia 101, then upgraded to a 1011. It could send text messages, although “user-friendly” would not have been the first phrase that came to mind.

An old-fashioned mobile phone with a flip-out keypad and a green screen displaying various functions and options.

In 2001, I switched to a Kyocera. It had a flip-down keyboard that exposed a screen where I could use a stylus to select apps and scribble emails using Kyocera’s graffiti shorthand. 

By 2004, I had moved on to a Palm with a camera and an actual keyboard.

I’ll stop there, because this list could get ridiculous.

The transistor radio became the smartphone.

The mono Beatles earphone became AirPods.

A close-up of a Palm Treo smartphone displaying its main menu, featuring icons for various applications such as Calendar, Contacts, and Facebook.

The Sony Micro TV became streaming video.

The calculator became a personal computer.

The magnetic card became the cloud.

The telephone modem became Wi-Fi.

We Boomers didn’t discover technology. We kept upgrading analog versions of it, and ourselves.

Like kids today, my information flow sped up as a teenager. The difference is that Gen Z was born into the digital revolution and didn’t have to wait.

We Boomers had a front-row seat to it all.

Since doomsdayers predict AI will bring the end of humankind, I’ll dig out a transistor radio and listen to the Beatles when World War III starts.