A Small, Happy Town

Some say that Estes Park, Colorado was one of the last pleasant places in the world. The crime was low- maybe a murder every five years, and a few troublemaking young fools that run away to the big city- happiness was high, and every person who lived there was at least charming and respectable, if not infectiously happy. Yes, indeed, Estes Park was the last of its kind- a true small town, charming, idyllic, and seemed just like those small town that painter Thomas Kinkaide likes to paint.

They were one of those small towns that celebrated all kinds of holidays in fine fashion- yes, they'd gussy up the whole town! The main street would be adorned in ribbons, posters, and banners . . . nearly every store front would decorate similarly, because these were a folk who liked neat and orderly things. Not saying they didn't celebrate creativity, of course . . . but everyone appreciates a cohesive effort.

For example- the Hartmoore Farm pumpkin patch. It's just outside the city limits, sprawling and well cared for as its been kept in the family for seven generations. Every fall it's nearly assured that the town's high schoolers and a few other adult volunteers will come to help set up their pumpkin patch (called the "Scare"-moore Trail, isn't it cute?) for Halloween. Over the past five years or so, Estes Park has placed itself on the map of up and coming Halloween attractions to visit in the U.S. Well, the Culture Preservation office team was pleased as punch about it, and the subsequent Estes Gazette interview, as you can imagine. It was a niche magazine, admittedly, but it did attract the attention of the serious Halloween revelers whose podcasts and vlogs had even farther reaches.

So, now, Hartmoore Farms takes it as a personal challenge to outdo themselves from the year after. They have no intention of making an outrageous to do about it- they are, first and foremost, an agricultural powerhouse for the region. But they have found a superior method that focuses on that distinct Estes Park charm, the sweet nostalgia of a pumpkin patch in the middle of dense woods, hay rides and a corn field "haunted maze." A lot of the influencers that come to the "Scare"-moore Trail are born and bred city kids who might never have come to a genuine pumpkin patch, and certainly not one as large as this. They got a lot of positive reviews concerning their always tidy hay wagon done up in black satin ribbons, and their best thoroughbreds with their attached gold bells. The lanterns were a rustic touch that not everybody appreciated, but no one certainly hated. But the most glowing reviews were offered to the austere coachman- the town's Mortician- and the Bone Parlor!

The Bone Parlor was all thanks to Mrs. Hartmoore, whose father had been a prize cattle rancher just two counties over, and who had taken up the rather morbid hobby of taxidermy. Well, sometimes after killing his steers he'd take out their bones and clean them up. And the few foxes or crows his hounds would catch would be refined and given new purpose on mantlepieces and the like. So upon his passing, the old cattle rancher left his only daughter a room of dead things and his two sons got the farm and everything else of value.

She isn't as bitter about it as you'd perhaps expect, but anyway- in the second year of "Scare"-moore Trail, she decided to put those old bones from dead steers to use. Skulls, pelvic bones, and legs were all arranged either upon the mantle of that old sitting room, or suspended from the vaulted ceiling. But of particular pride to the Hartmoore's, was Old Man Leer. He was set in the middle of the room, always in a finely pressed suit with a beautiful handkerchief in his pocket, and a top hat with a plum band to match the plum cumberbund that hid his lack of stomach. He was painted black, Mrs. Hartmoore would tell intrigued guests, by a scorned woman in his life. Pitch black to match the heart that used to be there. And when guests inevitably ask her if those skeletons are real, she'll just wink at them and shoo them along to continue following the mortician with a glint in his eye.

Since then, the Bone Parlor has welcomed a few new residents over the near two decades they've been doing this. A cheerful woman named Curly Cee dressed as an old fashioned movie usher, a detective named Robert (the 't' is silent), and a young couple wearing matching Letterman jackets. All supposed to resemble kind patrons who have donated to the Hartmoore Farm in some way. My favorite is the one they call Star, they even gave her a cellphone and her own Instagram! Guests can see her "scrolling" her Instagram or preparing to take a selfie. It's funny, because it reminds me of that influencer who'd come to "Scare"-moore Trails and wrote that awful review- oh yes, she slammed the place! But don't you know the Hartmoore's invited her back free of charge, and when she came back the next year she gave the most effusive review of it! Should have seen the grins on the Hartmoore's faces . . . but it's such a shame her car crashed into Grand Lake only a week later isn't it?

Oh, and who- Oh! Yes, yes, isn't it terrible how those college kids went missing in the next city over? What is this world coming to, when young folks can't go and enjoy fresh air and mountain trails in the forest?! Well, I certainly hope they're not suffering. Wherever they are . . . I hope they're taken care of.