We usually have snow on Halloween. Except when it's too cold, but usually there's at least a crusty dusting on the ground when the kids march stubbornly up the drive, trying to show off as much of their costumes as they can around the puffy coats and boots. The older kids - some of them with five o'clock shadow - try to tough it out. Maybe a long-sleeved shirt under their costume, sometimes bare arms against the twenty-five degree wind. They'll burn through more calories than the collected candy contains if they're out long enough. Mother Nature's holding back this year, saving it for when she really needs it.
We seem to have a mustache shortage up here this year, as well. Not the real ones. We have plenty, too many maybe, of the real ones. But my friendly local costume shop, which supplies me year-round with fine faux mustaches, is nearly out. Just a few joke-sized black handlebars and some raggedy old muttonchops hang now on the pegs.
Not my style.
I guess it's cutbacks, the pretend facial hair industry scaling back on low-selling items like everybody else. Some day, sitting around the campfire, we'll sing songs about the days of yore, when we had snow on Halloween, and mustaches were sold on every corner.