ArcaMax

As her three kids steadily picked through the large orange bowl for all the remaining chocolate, she said she remembered when my husband had started his office. The first Halloween was in a pandemic, but there was a driveway. He dressed up in a fake hazmat suit and real mask to give candy to kids in the backseats whose trick-or-treating had been canceled.

"Yeah, we went through the line then too," she said, and we both looked down at her kids, who were toddlers then and now more detailed in their candy orientations.

My husband has an office in a small unincorporated town. Like most small towns, new people have a hard time integrating, especially since he came with the bluster of a corporate office. Slowly, the town warmed up to him. People would drive by to offer a sale on a plate of enchiladas or to mow his weeds.

He speaks their language, quite literally, with the Spanish-speaking residents flocking to sit one-on-one with him and sometimes veering into other bureaucratic things they might need help with. And while I might have understandable bias, he's a gem of a person who takes great care with people.

Last year's Halloween was a success: free tacos, free bounce house, all under the glow of the formal branding of the store. This year, he accidentally went viral when a self-deprecating video about his Halloween party went viral online.

"I forgot to say they're free tacos," he lamented dramatically in the video. "And this poster doesn't even have the address."

People came out in droves. Families, especially young ones with kids in strollers or barely finding their walking skills, parked along the dusty road. Some of the children, dressed for cuteness instead of comfort, only half understood why they were being given candy. But, boy, they understood the bounce house. The sound of screeching, laughter, and basic cumbia mingled.

The keyboardist had offered his services to my husband for free after seeing the video, and his wife tagged along to help clean up tables as parents ate, keeping one eye on their kids as they ran amok up and down the inflatable slides.

He was an older man with a worn van. "I've lived here my whole life," he said, as he packed up his speakers at the end of the night. "We don't have things like this too often."

It was a feeling that had floated through me like a spirit as I watched people unpack from their cars. As a young family, you want to be back in the community. It wasn't so much about the holiday; it was a manifestation of a craving for belonging.

In a world where connection feels increasingly like something you have to subscribe to or scroll for, there's something sacred about showing up in person. Not for profit. Not for politics. Just for people.

I've sat in enough city meetings to know how complicated community issues can become: budgets, zoning, liability waivers, and public safety concerns. But when you strip all of that away, what people really want is simple: they want to be seen and welcomed. They want a place where their kids can run around without worry. Community isn't built in official ways; it's built in parking lots and playgrounds. It's built by people who decide to take on the duties of an event planner, however haphazardly.

We've been trained to consume, not connect. We've been told that community lives more in online groups or hashtags, and that belonging can be algorithmically sorted. But it doesn't make even the most generic costume glitter with a bit more magic in the orange light of a sunset.

I think that's why events like this one matter so much. They remind us what we miss when we retreat into our own worlds. They remind us that we need each other -- not abstractly, but physically. We need to stand in the same space, look at each other, and offer and accept food.

We talk about "revitalizing" communities, but sometimes, they don't need revitalizing. They just need space to gather and be reminded they exist. Because, despite our differences, we all just want to belong. We just want to feel part of something real. We just want community.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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