Post pumpkins

On the morning of the eve of Guy Fawkes Day, I found myself on sidewalks strewn with finger-bones and wands.

Walking in the half-light of pre-dawn and mindful that daylight will bring pedestrians using canes, walkers, wheelchairs, and even strollers, I kicked and pushed fallen branches off the sidewalk, the remnants of the night's high winds.

Guy Fawkes Day, that British celebration based on a history of grisly executions, plots of mass murder, and state-sanctioned religious persecution, found me reducing the jack o' lanterns into mash for future pies.  I saved my favourite for last.  I was the one pumpkin-carver in our household to use a stencil this year, and I'm rather proud of the result.

I ran my fingers over the holes and etchings, and thought of this year's Hallowe'en.

We're only allowed to shell out to trick-or-treaters who live in our building, and this year, for the first time in three years, no one came.  I left younger daughter to savour her own Hallowe'en tradition, singing along with Rocky Horror Picture Show, and escorted Demeter home through the dark.

It was still early enough afterwards to stroll out to Linden Avenue, which had been preparing for Hallowe'en for weeks. Unlike the spooky other streets near our place, practically deserted under a misty half moon, with outlines of owls and cats posted in the windows and jack o'lanterns glowing in forlorn festivity from the steps and pathways, the hilly part of Linden was crammed with costumed revellers of many sizes, crowding in front of the ambitious frontyard tableaux, and lined up for someone's haunted house.

I breathed in the atmosphere, from the uncrowded side of the street, and wondered what the COVID count would be in a week's time.

A movement caught my eye from the direction of the much quieter intersection to the north.  It was a human-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, riding a scooter uphill.

I gave my head a shake, and decided it was high time to go home, where we took in the pumpkins and drew the blinds.

 

"Igor is a chain-smoker; look where it got him!"

 One of the things I do on Hallowe'en is listen to the Spotify playlist I pulled together.  It's got my favourites: "Werewolves of London" (Warren Zevon), "Time Warp"(Rocky Horror Picture Show), "Skeleton" (Fionn) "Ghost" (Indigo Girls)....

All in all, about two hours of spooky music.

Of course, I have "Monster Mash", but that's only because Spotify doesn't have Bobby "Boris" Pickett's ghoulish (and rather more grammatically correct) take on a 1947 ditty penned by Merle Travis and Tex Williams:  "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke That Cigarette"

Well, thank goodness for YouTube.

Now, I'm a fellow with a heart of gold  

And the ways of a gentleman I've been told 

The kind of a person who wouldn't harm a flea 

But if I and a certain character met 

The man that created the cigarette 

I'd murder the so-and-so in the first degree

 

Not because I don't smoke myself 

And I don't suppose they'll harm my health 

I've smoked all my life and I'm not dead yet 

But you nicotine slaves look a little more pale 

Each time you light up a coffin nail

Go ahead, have another cigarette 

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette 

(Go on, take a puff!)

Puff, puff, puff 

And if you smoke yourself to death 

Tell St Peter at the Golden Gate 

That you hate to make him wait 

But you've just got to have another cigarette

The other night, I had a date

with the cutest little girl in the fifty states,

A high-grade, uptown, fancy graveyard pet

I gave her a kiss and a little squeeze,

And she said, "Boris, excuse me please,

I've just got to have another cigarette!"

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette

(Dig your own grave.)

Sweet dreams.

Jack o'lantern jazz: freestyle, old-school, fusion, and bebop

I spent part of this morning test-driving jack o'lanterns.

 I already knew that mine would need a tilt. I'm the only family member who used a stencil this year. It's not as easy as you might think. I also decided I wanted to try peeling this year; allowing the light to shine though the exposed flesh of the pumpkin. (This is not as creepy as it sounds.)  

Note to self:  the stencil needs to be taped closer to the lid, so that the image doesn't disappear down under.

The Resident Fan Boy went old-school - suitable for scaring off evil spirits.

Demeter free-styled a sun-burst for a flash of brilliance.

And younger daughter has been focussing on the fantasy/horror series Stranger Things. She was mortified to have forgotten the "R", but I think the addition is in keeping with the storyline of children astray and missing -- something, I hasten to add, we do not wish for any trick-or-treaters tomorrow night.  

May the lights guide them home safely.

The early worms get the bird

One of several jump-starters on Linden Avenue

Oh, I had plans for today.

Never mind.  Things happen. I'll spare you.

I think the neighbourhood might be pretty excited about Hallowe'en this year.  Even in Hades, people waited until the Thanksgiving weekend to put up Hallowe'en displays.

Not in Victoria this year!  The spiderwebs and clutching skeletal hands started emerging in early October.

If our neighbours are this eager, I think it may be prudent to take the jack o' lanterns in early on Sunday.

And draw the blinds...

An angel whispered trick or treat

The neighbourhood started oozing Hallowe'en decorations before Thanksgiving.  I think everyone is eager to have a real Hallowe'en, although you hear of scaredy-cats who don't want to shell out this year either.

Much as "Boxing Day" has been highjacked into "Boxing Week", or even "Boxing Month" by the merchants, I've been hearing the phrase "Hallowe'en Week".

Well, I'm prepping the pumpkins today, so I might as well get into the mood.  I didn't hear this 1992 Hallowe'en tune by Richard Shindell until a couple of years ago.  It combines the bitterness of a busted up love affair with dreamlike and nightmarish aspects of All Hallows Eve.  

It's a toe-tapper.

You took the toaster when you went 

You never paid your half the rent 

You took the spices from the rack 

But you don't have to put 'em back 

'Cause in your haste on Halloween 

You left your camera on the bed 

Where we played roles in black and white 

You left a roll of black and white 

I set the timer and thought of you 

And put the lens up to my head 

I took a photograph for you 

What comes out grey is really red 

Are you happy now? 

I smashed your pumpkin on the floor 

The candle flickered at my feet 

As goblins flew across the moon 

The children peered into the room 

A cowboy shivered on the porch 

As Cinderella checked her watch 

A hobo waited in the street 

An angel whispered trick-or-treat 

But what was I supposed to do 

But to sit there in the dark? 

I was amazed to think that you 

Could take the candy with you too  

So, are you happy now? 

I've sat all night and now it's dawn 

And I cannot believe my eyes 

There's garbage strewn across the lawn 

Where we once stared up at the sky 

And streams of paper fill the tree 

That hovered over you and me 

Shaving cream covers the car 

That we picked up in Baltimore 

Though I know it's hard to tell 

I hope that what's-his-name treats you well 

I still maintain that he's a bum 

But it's your money – have some fun 

And are you happy now? 

You always asked why I had not 

Written you a verse or two 

Since that's the one thing I regret 

I dedicate this one to you 

So, are you happy now? 

Are you?

Hey? (Nay!)

 I went to the drug store, as is my custom, on October 31st, to cut down on the possibility that I might consume all the Hallowe'en candy before the little goblins show up.

This year, however, it's unlikely. Across the country, provincial premiers and health officers are declaring a moratorium on trick-or-treating.  Even our prime minister, an avid Hallowe'en dresser-upper (sometimes with disastrous results) has declared to the children of Canada that the pandemic "sucks".

We've carved our jack o' lanterns, nevertheless, and, with three or four families with young children in our building, we're prepared to shell out.  Perhaps in baggies.  Delivered by reacher/grabber.

To fully understand the joke behind this rather wonderful "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" parody, it helps to have: a) been in French Core or French Immersion in the primary grades at a Canadian elementary school within the past forty or so years; or: b) had children in French Core or French Immersion in the primary grades at a Canadian elementary school within the past forty or so years.

Here's the original:

In case we need to find our way back

Clockwise from upper left:  younger daughter's "That Seventies Show" jack o' lantern (after an episode entitled "Too Old to Trick or Treat, Too Young to Die"); Demeter's jack o' lantern (simple, to spare her arthritic hand); the Resident Fan Boy's Classic Who jack o' lantern (no, not a cyberman); mine, from the Art-Deco-inspired "Star Thrower" stencil from the kit.

As the year in our new - well, new to us - home starts the slow turn from autumn to autumn, we pound in the holidays like little pegs to guide us around again. We've had the first Thanksgiving, and now we're having the first Hallowe'en.

Nothing's guaranteed; we might not pass this way again. Still, we leave the signposts.

Hallowe'en seventeen

This year, I decided to splurge and ordered up a deluxe carving kit with special scoopers, and awls and saws of delicate sizes for intricate stencil work. Here is what elder daughter, the Resident Fan Boy, and younger daughter produced after a couple of hours of diligent chiselling yesterday.
By 8:30, the candies were gone, snaffled up by scores of goblins ranging from wide-eyed and worried toddlers-in-arms to the usual large gangs of gangling teenagers. Having spent seventeen Hades Hallowe'ens, we knew to take the pumpkins in and turn off the porch lights to discourage even larger trick-or-treaters.

Looking uneasily to the south, I wonder if there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

Cue the Paul Dukas

I won't forget this Hallowe'en in a hurry. But gawd knows I'll try. I've spent the better part of this All Saints' Day chopping this and our two other jack o' lanterns into cubes which I will steam, mash, and freeze for future pies. It's been very therapeutic.

Loopy

Canada has been rather more interesting than usual for the past ten days, for all the wrong reasons.  We're showing up in other countries' news channels and websites, when  On top of that, tonight is Hallowe'en and it's also a Friday, never a great combination for the police or those of us who prefer that boring old "peace, order, and good government".

Seeing as things have been a decidedly un-Canadian kind of loopy lately, I offer two good kinds of loopy.  First, I adore this.  This is Patrick Godfrey, a second-year music student at Wilfred Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario.  Anyone who was in school band knows that the French horn is not easy to play. Just listen to what he does:


Second,  absolutely nothing Canadian about this.  But it is loopy, in the best sense of the word.

Hallowe'en at fifteen

When I felt the egg yolk oozing down the back of my head, I probably should have headed home. I could have stayed out of a lot of trouble. I would have missed my most exciting Hallowe'en ever, but excitement and danger are over-rated. Aren't they?

Back in the days of my misspent youth, the cut-off age for trick-or-treating was generally thirteen, the age I happened to be when we moved from View Royal on the outskirts of Greater Victoria to Esquimalt, a municipality closer to town. When I was fifteen, my best friend Julie suggested I come back to my old neighbourhood for the bonfire. There were Hallowe'en bonfires throughout the city in the community parks, usually run by the local Kiwanis. Nothing special, but it beat the prospect of staying home watching television and shelling out candy.

I turned up with Mindy, another friend from our junior high. Mindy was wide-eyed and energetic, and dated boys five years her senior. In fact, I'm not sure how she happened to be free that evening to join us.

We entered the dark playing grounds, and tried to pick out Julie, a husky-voiced and high-coloured girl with permanent turn-out. To our horror, Julie was in the company of two other fellow Grade Nines: Rudi and Mick. Like Julie, I had been at school with Rudi since Grade Six, so he had been the buzz-cutted, bespectacled bane of my existence for three years. Mick was Rudi's constant companion. His chief identifying characteristic was his strangled voice, which was in continual adolescent flux. The poor boy sounded like Gonzo the Great until university.

It was when we girls were huddled in conference about our plans (there were none), that Rudi broke the egg on my hair. This was apparently his declaration that he and Mick would be passing the evening with us. I really should have gone home.

Since nothing was happening at the bonfire, we got the brilliant idea to seek out the house of our much-hated French teacher, a woman who had made the fatal decision to spend what very few years remained of her career teaching middle-teenagers, a task for which she was spectacularly unsuited. The unfortunate woman lived on the other side of the Trans-Canada Highway, not far from my old house.

Her home was dark when we got there, so Rudi and Mick scrawled witty epithets on the windows, mostly on the theme of the French teacher's rather old and very ill-fitting wig. We made our way back, passing my old house, crossing the disused railway where I used to go on long walks with my dog. There was a short slope leading down to the highway, and Mick and Rudi, for reasons comprehensible only to teenaged boys, lit one of the fireworks they had brought along and tossed it into the oncoming lane of the busy road. A car screeched to a halt and a man leapt out.

Thinking it out from a rational distance of several years, the smartest thing for Julie, Mindy and me to do would probably have been to stay our ground. We hadn't tossed the flaming thing, after all. But panic hit us in a wave, and carried us up the hill, then along the railway tracks, the man roaring at us to come back.

Running along railway ties isn't easy in daylight, let alone in the dark. As we scrambled and tripped, Rudie looked back and swore: "He's coming after us!" I glanced back and saw a swinging flashlight. I faced forward just in time to spot my companions disappearing down the side of the embankment. I wondered where they thought they were going, plunging down a steep slope of loose gravel dotted by clumps of bushes, but I was now the sole quarry on the track, so I plunged after them, and in the struggle to stay on my feet didn't realize that I had lost sight of them until I was more than halfway down.

I had no time to wonder where they had gone. I found a space between two scraggly bushes. My one thought was how to blend in, because I knew our pursuer had a flashlight. I was wearing a light-blue coat, which I ripped off and stuffed underneath me, I shoved my glasses in my pocket and pushed my hands into the sleeves of my dark sweater. Pulling my knees to my chest, I buried my face in them, praying my long dark hair would cover the white nape of my neck. I willed my shuddering breath to slow, and kept as still as I could, not daring to look up or out.

An eternity seemed to pass. I could hear nothing but the distant swishing of passing cars on the highway. I wondered how long I would need to stay there, how long I could stay there and how on earth in the dark, in my near-sightedness, in my inability to look, I would ever know when, if ever, it would be safe to move.

Finally, hissing voices called to me, guiding me to a culvert tunneling under the embankment where the others had crouched, watching in terror as the beam from the flashlight swept the slope. I had been just a few feet away.

Mick's state of agitation had wedged his wobbly voice up several octaves to a semi-permanent state of boy soprano.

"He was gonna kill us! He was gonna kill us!" he kept repeating, as the others tried to shush him.
"He had his flashlight on you the whole time," Mindy informed me. She really seemed to be enjoying this.
"I think he couldn't decide if you were really there, or not," said Julie in grave quietness. She was the grand-daughter of an Anglican priest and hadn't been enjoying this quite so much.
"Okay," said Rudi, "We'll head out the other end. We can get to Helmcken Road from here."

So we crept out of the culvert, scanning the rails above and the roads below us anxiously, but our stalker had evidently given up on us. Chattering excitedly and breathing easily, we dropped Julie off at her house opposite the bonfire and followed Rudie to his house on the crescent behind the park where his mother offered to drive Mindy and me home.

Rudie's mum, a relaxed (and possibly oblivious) lady who had adopted Rudie and his brother and sister, but managed to look exactly like them, chatted easily in the car, asking questions about our evening and ignoring our muffled giggles, exchanged looks, and overly nonchalant replies. Looking back, I'm rather glad I had no clairvoyant powers as I sat in the back seat, marveling at our survival. Within the year, Mindy would be packed off to private school after an abortion, and within five years, Rudie's kindly mother would be dead from cancer. Rudie himself married a pal of mine straight out of high school, had a couple of kids and got divorced. Julie married a much older man and had step-kids her age. She was widowed in her thirties. I don't know where Mick is now; I heard his brother died.

I got out at my house, thanked Rudie's mum, gave my mother a sanitized account of the evening, and went upstairs to wash the egg out of my hair. The next morning, my hair seemed particularly shiny. I suppose it was the extra protein.

Nice day for a black wedding

These skeletons in a medieval woodcut style (actually styrofoam) appeared last week around the shared entrance to our local bookstore and SconeWitch. If you can't quite make it out, the five skeletons to the left are clutching books and those to the right have scones and mugs, although if you click on the picture, you may get a larger version. I think it rather gives the impression of entering a Gothic cathedral, possibly a Spanish one.

I quickly snapped a few shots, then boarded a bus with the Resident Fan Boy to accompany younger daughter to a voice lesson.

Our route took us past the former St Brigid's Church. Well, I guess it is still St Brigid's, but I believe it stopped being a church about five years ago, to great outcry from the faithful, of course. I saw a knot of people out front, lots of deep purple stockings. I thought it might be some sort of art gathering, as that's what St Brigid's is used for a lot these days, but a closer look revealed that it was a small wedding, the members gathering on the steps for a group portrait. I figured out who the bride was by her bouquet; she was draped in a black dress and her attendants were clutching individual and simply huge blood-red gerbera daisies.

Well, I guess you can still get married at St Brigid's even if it's deconsecrated, provided you have a marriage commissioner to perform the ceremony, or clergy from one of the more liberal faiths. However, given the colour scheme of this wedding, the SconeWitch, particularly as it looked today, would have worked too.

Cantaloupe tonight; dad's gone afar...

The Resident Fan Boy is not resident tonight; he's off to a conference in Montreal until Friday, which means three lonely nights and four lonely days as a grass widow for me. Still, it could be worse, and it definitely was, a baker's dozen of years ago, when the RFB decided to take on a six-month secondment in Ottawa, leaving his wife and daughters (then 2 and 6) in Victoria.
Oh, he came home every three weeks, for three fun-filled jet-lagged days. This had started in September and by mid-October, younger daughter had started having night terrors. I tried to cope by transforming myself into some kind of highly organized and crafty earth-mother, trying out recipes for stews and tackling crafts to distract my daughters from their fatherless existence. For instance, one parenting magazine brightly suggested that cantaloupes would be a fun and exotic jack o' lantern variation.
Interesting, yes.
Flimsy, too.

These days, I pick the simplest food preparation I can without resorting to pre-packaged food, and keep projects to a minimum until the RFB comes home, in time for Hallowe'en, as it happens. We'll be carving pumpkins this weekend, but you're welcome to try cantaloupes, if you dare.

Write of Passage number fourteen: do I get my medal yet?

Conversation doesn't come easily to younger daughter. I spend two hours each day with her on the bus, but very few words are exchanged and if I try to introduce a topic, I'm usually met with an impatient "I know! I know that, Mum!" even if she doesn't know, because the underlying message is Please stop talking; I'm getting overwhelmed.

So the days when she does initiate a conversation are special indeed, and terrifying, because it means the topic is of vital importance and my answer can make or break her heart.

About a week before Hallowe'en, she sees something out the bus window which makes her shudder with delight.

"Hallowe'en is coming really soon!"
I agree.
She reaches across and touches my arm with one mitten. It's black and has reflective skeletal hand bones over the back. (Uh-oh. She's touching me to make sure I'm paying attention. This must be paramount. She rarely does this.)

"I do want to go trick-or-treating this year..."
"Really?" I say, gently quizzical. "Aren't you fourteen?"
"I know I'm fourteen, Mum!" She retreats back to her window and I watch her internal struggle throughout the long bus ride, punctuated by rebellious murmurs and flat declarations such as:
"Fine! I won't go trick-or-treating!"
Minutes pass, more muttering.
Finally: "I've changed my mind! I won't watch Meet Me in St Louis tonight!"
Meet Me in St Louis features a long segment about Hallowe'en. The previous evening, she watched ET which is set in the days around Hallowe'en.

As we get off the bus, she is clearly unhappy and strides ahead of me. I follow her sadly, considering the issue. The Resident Fan Boy and I both gave up trick-or-treating when we became teenagers. Things were a little more delineated then. At thirteen in British Columbia, you used to leave elementary school and enter junior high. These days, middle schools muddy the waters between childhood and adolescence. They can begin as early as Grade Six in some provinces. Furthermore in our long-vanished childhoods, there was considerable social pressure to stop trick-or=treating when one got older. One lady was so adamant that she refused treats to any kid who appeared to her to be over ten. Her windows got soaped and egged quite a bit...

When we came to Ottawa ten years ago, I was quite startled to see great hulking teenagers outnumber the little tikes who appeared on my porch with pillowcases at the ready. Nevertheless, older daughter decided on her own (with several veerings in the days before the festival) to stay home when she turned thirteen.

Near younger daughter's school, she falls back into step with me. (Another once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence.)

"I'll watch Enchanted tonight. I was just kidding about trick-or-treating."
My heart melts. "Some teenagers do trick-or-treating, but Daddy and I stopped when we were thirteen. So did your sister. Why don't you ask at school if they still trick-or-treat?"
Short silence.
"I think I will go trick-or-treating, but this will be the last time."
"That sounds like a good plan," I say gravely.
"And next year, I'll just stay home."
"Well, you can still wear a costume to school and we will still carve a pumpkin and you can hand out the treats."
"Yes. 'Cause I'm not a little kid."
"And the good thing about handing out the treats is that you can still eat them!"
"Good. I might get hungry on Hallowe'en."

Write of Passage Number Six: The clash of the stereotypes

A number of thoughts crossed my mind when the big brutha with a ghetto blaster sent up camp at my bus stop. One of them was: A ghetto blaster? Seriously? Is he partying like it's 1979? He stashed his blaster on top of the shelter, thought better of it, then swooped it past my ear a couple of times, while shouting along with the rap lyrics and making those hand signals that seem to have been co-opted by boy bands. (I found this video to try to find out about rapper/hip-hop hand signals, but it's only marginally helpful):

Newest Rap Hand Signs @ Yahoo! Video

As I tried to studiously ignore this guy as he strutted up and down, grinning widely beneath his baggy wool cap and neon-yellow sunglasses, my next thought was: Oh Gawd. Please. Not on my bus. These appeared to be the precise thoughts of the bus driver as I climbed on. He glanced over my shoulder, then back at me and we raised our respective eyebrows. Sure enough, as I took my seat, the brutha-from-anotha-planet made his entrance and proceeded past me. Judging from the facial expressions on the swiveling heads, I'd say roughly half our fellow passengers were thinking: Oh Gawd, not on this bus, and the other half were thinking: A ghetto blaster?? Seriously?
It looked like we were all going to sit this out in quiet Canadian martyrdom, until the song finished and the next one started. That's when a number of guys started shouting back at our homie. A very large man who looked like he rode Harley Davidsons when he wasn't using public transit, was particularly incensed and insistent.

"Have some respect for other people. We don't want to listen to your &%#@."
"Stick in some earphones, like everyone else!" someone else added, while the bus driver pulled over, got out of his seat and pointed meaningfully at the door.

Our homie rose slowly with a few choice words and a face-saving shrug and made his way to the back door... closely followed by Motorcycle Man who, uttering a string of imprecations, gave him a mighty shove. Homie measured his length on the sidewalk for a split second, then sprang up and hurled himself at Motorcycle Man, while those of us still on the bus gasped and gaped. Motorcycle Man soon had Homey pinned on his back, his eyes white and wide without his sunglasses which were scattered across the sidewalk along with his ghetto blaster and several other belongings.

"He picked the wrong white guy to piss off," offered someone.
I had my face buried in my hands and looked up at the young girl seated next to me.
"That was totally unnecessary," I said wearily. "He was getting off the bus."
The girl and a young man standing by us nodded vigorously.
"He didn't need to shove him," they said. A lady in bright yellow Brunhilda braids tried to explain how Motorcycle Man was justified, but no one paid much attention; our eyes were glued on the drama outside.

Our bus driver sighed, waited a moment, then got out and strolled over to tap Motorcycle Man on the shoulder as he continued to pin Homey to the sidewalk. I guess some sort of truce was arranged as Motorcycle Man got up, and Homey struggled to his feet. M.M. tried to hand Homey a yellow book of scripture which had fallen in the melée, but Homey was spitting. There were a couple of additional angry exchanges, before a young fella handed Homey his ghetto blaster and got an embrace in return. Motorcycle Man, thank heaven, did not get back on the bus.

It was only when the woman in Brunhilda braids got off at Elgin Street that I realized she was an office worker dressed for this last day of work before Hallowe'en. I was beginning to wonder how many people on that bus had been in costume.

Things David Tennant makes me do

Okay, I admit that this is evidence that I may be losing it. See, I put together one of these using my family's heads for Facebook, but then it occurred to me: I have a few pictures on DT on my computer....

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Do you think someone will sue me?

Hallowe'en in Hades

Ottawa, unlike other Canadian cities in which I've lived, tends to treat most holidays like Christmas. There's a long run-up to Canada Day which, I suppose, is only natural in a city that is, and constantly refers to itself as, The Nation's Capital.

However, the first thing I noticed when we moved here in the autumn of 2000, was the long Christmas-like anticipation of Hallowe'en. Around the Thanksgiving long weekend, the pumpkins are parked on porches and front steps, while other spooky decorations begin adorning the neighbouring houses in early to mid-October. This year, the pumpkins were caught outside in a snowstorm, so we've been passing some odd juxtapositions this week:

Mind you, this is not all that odd; I doubt there are all that many Canadian kids who have not experienced at one time or the other the fantasy-dampening sensation of wearing a winter coat and boots (even, gawd help us, ski-pants) under a costume when going trick-or-treating. (We sang out "Hal-lah-ween-ah-puls!" on the frozen prairie of my youth; do they do that anymore? "Trick or Treat!" is so lame...) However, today is sunny and reasonably temperate for the time of year. The snow has plummeted from the flash-frozen golden leaves and (mostly) retreated from the grass. There's a promise of cloud cover for the evening which should hold in what warmth there is like a blanket.

The Resident Fan Boy carved the jack o' lanterns last night, according to his daughters' design. Here's elder daughter's:
... and here's younger daughter's.

Madness has reigned at younger daughter's school all week. There's talk of teachers in Toronto changing October 31st at school to "Black and Orange Day", presumably to fade the religious (or not-so-religious) implications of Hallowe'en. However, this is unlikely to ease the stress at younger daughter's school where Hallowe'en merely precedes the massive Book Fair held in early November, and the ambitious and annual Remembrance Day play, complete with uniforms and dance numbers. The special ed teacher is fully tentacled this morning, but has lost her voice. I've packed up younger daughter's vampiress costume (complete with good set of fangs; second-class fangs on reserve at home), because her teacher has decreed that costumes may not be donned until after lunch. I hand over Old Dutch potato chips and our traditional Hoot Owl cookies before stashing the costume in younger daughter's locker and checking that she knows where her fangs are. (She'd probably like to bite me by that point.) I'm inches from a clean getaway when I realize that her lunch hadn't made it into her packsack (gawd, I love Hallowe'en). Still, the extra two-kilometre walk is probably a good idea, given that I'm on my way to the grocery store to pick up the chocolate bags for shelling out tonight. (I don't dare have that stuff in my house before the day...)

The cashier is dressed rather attractively in a sea-foam two-piece top with a beaded necklace. It takes me several minutes to realize that this is her costume; to me, she looks ready for a nice night out. "What are you?" I ask. "Retro," she shrugs.

We get a lot of teen trick-or-treaters like this. When challenged on not wearing a costume, they declare: "This is my costume; I don't usually look like this!" I am prepared for this kind of malarkey, because to my mind, dressing in a different style from your normal day-to-day wear is not true trick-or-treating; it's merely a fashion statement. I smile pleasantly and remark: "There's a traditional term for treat-or-treating without a costume, you know."
"What's that?"
"Begging!!"
I then hand over Witches Fingers instead of chocolate bars to these interlopers. (They look gross, but are actually quite delicious and quite easy to make.) I haven't been soaped or T.P.-ed yet, but it's only a matter of time. May you make it through to All Saints' Day in one piece. Happy Hallowe'en indeed...