roadside pumpkins

On a road trip last weekend, I saw pumpkins everywhere. It warmed my heart.

Even though my heart didn't need much warming since the weather felt more like July than late September. Maybe it's this sudden rash of heat and humidity that's responsible for my sudden rash of pumpkin rot.

haunted by twelve year olds

While on our anniversary weekend in Annapolis Royal,  we made one last stop before going home. We spent an afternoon at a nearby amusement park.  Upper Clements Park has many of the classics that one might expect: carousel, roller coaster, pedal boats, ferris wheel . . . and a haunted house.

I was intrigued. This would compensate for my disappointment over the poor timing of the lantern-lit graveyard tour. And being a traditional sort of amusement park, I fully anticipated a traditional sort of haunted house.  Walking up the long, winding path toward the house on the edge of the park, my hopes were encouraged.  Suddenly a house, quite an impressive stone house, came into view. 

There was a hearse parked in front.   And a suitably spooky sign beside the door.   I was certain that this would be the highlight of the park.  I waited to be "summoned" inside.

The door opened . . .

As we walked inside, we were greeted by several teenagers in park staff shirts.  No costumes.  No make-up.  Nothing creepy.  Or at least nothing creepier than a group of teenagers in t-shirts.  Odd, I thought.  But I wasn't deterred.  They were obviously saving the real creepiness for deeper inside the house. 

We were asked to "take a look around upstairs".  As I walked slowly up the dark, narrow, winding staircase to the second floor, I was prepared for anything.  Costumed actors.  A terrifying tableau.  Vague whispers emanating from the darkness. I wasn't prepared, however, for what I actually encountered.

In retrospect, I believe the house must have been there when the property was acquired for the park. It was a beautiful stone structure. Too nice to have been built solely for this purpose.  And I believe the house sat there, unused, until someone had the brilliant idea to turn it into a "haunted house".  And it would have been a brilliant idea indeed.  If they hadn't turned it over to a bunch of twelve year-olds.  Because that was certainly the impression we got as we "explored" the haunted second floor.  Three rooms.  A blood-splattered bathroom.  And two similarly "haunted" bedrooms. One of which was black-lit with a "ghostly" figure in a wedding dress sitting in a rocking chair.

That was the highlight.  We couldn't actually enter the bedrooms. Only look at them from the doorways.  As we moved along to look for more horrors, we were greeted by an EXIT sign.  Which led us past the haunted kitchen/mad scientist's lab, with various saws and axes strewn around.   And finally the group of teenagers in t-shirts that had greeted us when we entered.  We appeared to be disturbing their conversation as we left.

At least the sign was impressive.

tigers and spiders

So another wedding anniversary has come and gone. Our celebration of the occasion has been similar for the past few years.  We typically choose a Nova Scotia town that we rarely visit and spend the weekend there at a local inn.  Preferably a haunted inn.

This year, our town of choice was Annapolis Royal.  A town that spent centuries as the focus of a tug-of-war between England and France.  A haven for ghosts, one would expect.  And perhaps it is.  But I was unable to find an inn with an attached ghost story.  We did, however, end up staying at an inn across the street from an old graveyard adjacent to the town's historic fort.  And discovered that evening graveyard ghost tours were held there regularly.

I was delighted.

Until I learned that they were available only Mondays through Thursdays.  Mondays through Thursdays!  Once I recovered from my disappointment and disbelief that no tour was available on weekends, we explored the graveyard on our own.  And the following day, we wandered through the nearby botanical gardens.  Where I was quite naturally drawn to the bright orange tiger lillies.

And the spider flowers.

But the weekend was not entirely without an eerie touch.  The mosquitoes were terrifying.

summer reading

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I've never actually read the original text of Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My knowledge of the story comes from its myriad of modern incarnations. Most prominently, Disney's classic cartoon.

But finally, I can put my shame to rest. Because on my recent vacation stop in Sleepy Hollow, I picked up a copy in a local museum gift shop. Along with a print and a Christmas ornament created by a local artist specifically for the museum. After all, nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a tin representation of a pumpkin-wielding headless horseman hanging on the tree.

The book is at the top of my reading list for the approaching long weekend.

a beer by any other name . . .

So while planning the drive back to Nova Scotia from Tarrytown, it seemed best to break it into two days. Sixteen hours of non-stop driving wasn't terribly appealing. And completely contrary to the word "vacation". So I booked a hotel in a spot we've visited often and always enjoy. The town of Rockport on Cape Ann in Massachusetts. And since the drive took us within five minutes of Salem, it was unthinkable that we wouldn't stop for a visit. Salem in July is a completely different experience than Salem in October. Much quieter. Much warmer. Much less Halloween in the air. But it is still a lovely little city and we enjoyed our afternoon wandering around the streets and shops.

There was more, however. I had an ulterior motive for stopping in Salem. On our last October visit, three years ago, we ate at the Salem Beer Works. And whilst devouring our nachos, onion rings, and chicken wings, I noticed that the brewery had its own line of Salem/ Halloween themed beer. I was beyond excited. What was more, they were available in bottles that could be purchased at the adjacent brewery store. Perfect. Or so I thought. Sadly, my joy was short-lived. I had made this discovery on a Sunday. The beer store was closed on Sunday. And we had to leave early the next morning.

Someday, I promised myself . . . someday . . .

And finally, "someday" had arrived. "Someday" was now. After wandering the city, we all converged at the statue of Samantha in a town square and made our way to the beer works.

sleepy hollow by sunlight

So I'm home from a week's vacation in New York City. And one of my favourite parts of the trip had nothing to do with the city itself.

Not wanting to drive in Manhattan, we opted to stay in upstate New York and take the train into the city. And quite naturally, as I was exploring a map, looking for a suitable spot, my eyes fell upon Sleepy Hollow.  Perfect, I thought.

Alas, not quite so perfect. There was no hotel in Sleepy Hollow itself, so we stayed in nearby Tarrytown.  And my dreams of a lantern-lit ghost walk through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery evaporated when I discovered that most of their ghostly activities take place in the fall.  Ah well, I now have an excuse to return.

But despite the fact that it occurred under the intense light and heat of a July sun, it was a worthwhile visit. The spirit of Ichabod and his headless pursuer was everywhere.

From the orange and black street signs . . . 

. . . to the stone carvings . . .

 . . . to the metal statue near the original bridge . . .

. . . to the site of the famous bridge. Now a busy and somewhat dangerous intersection. Fortunately, I survived.

Perhaps because of the possibility of sight-seers being mowed down by speeding cars, the original bridge has been re-created in a quieter and safer location.  Deep in the heart of Sleepy Holllow Cemetery. 

Where the greatest danger is being mowed down by passing joggers.

From the Old Dutch Church . . .

 . . . to Washington Irving's grave . . . 

. . . to the looming front gates, this cemetery is massive.  Easily the largest I've seen.  With hills and valleys and winding paths and mausoleums.

There are bound to be more than a few ghosts lurking in there.  Time to begin planning an autumn trip.

naturally terrifying

This past weekend, I took a day trip to McNab's Island. Situated in the middle of Halifax Harbour, it is not regularly accessible by boat and thus, not often visited. At times throughout its history, it was home to a few families, but more often used as a recreation destination for Haligonians during the late-19th and early 20th centuries and as a military post in colonial times and during the world wars. Now, it is owned jointly by the provincial and federal governments, who may or may not develop it as a historic park.

That brings me to my visit.

Two or three times a year, a preservation society arranges day trips to the island and yesterday marked their "fall foliage" tour. It was overcast and cold and windy and recent storms ensured that little foliage remained on the trees. Nevertheless, we had bought advance tickets. So we got on the boat. We weren't surprised by the absence of bright autumn leaves. But we were surprised by what awaited us on the island. There was much to see.

The former site of a popular fairground. Now the overgrown site of its lone dilapidated ticket booth.

The tiny cluster of abandoned houses. Retaining only traces of their former glory.

The once-cheerful gate pointing the way to the abandoned houses.

The rusting and forgotten military outpost.

The cove that witnessed the quarantine and eventual death of a ship full of cholera victims.

The beach on which the corpses of navy deserters were left hanging as a warning to others.

If the government decides not to make use of McNab's Island, it simply begs to become a haunted attraction. No preparation necessary. No chainsaws. No strobe lights. No artificial fog. Just bring a boatload of people over at night and let them wander. It's naturally terrifying.

pumpkin-less

So this past weekend, I made my annual apple-picking journey to the Annapolis Valley. Typically, this is also a pumpkin-picking journey. An occasion to forage through a local pumpkin patch. In search of two or three prize specimens. Potential jack-o-lanterns.

But not this year.

No, this year, I traveled straight past the pumpkin patch. Stopping only briefly to gaze enviously at their impressive size and number.

I walked past the bins of pre-picked pumpkins.

Past the pumpkin wall.

Past the collections of assorted squash.

This year, I returned home pumpkin-less.

Because this year I will be carving my own pumpkins. Small though they may be. Pumpkins lovingly cultivated in the clearly inadequate soil of my front yard. Because with each passing day, the survival of at least a few of them seems assured, despite the recent unexpected death of one of the larger ones. Two more little pumpkins will likely be ready for harvest this week. They remain small but sincere. Small but sincere . . .

pumpkin pie

This weekend I made my annual apple-picking journey to the Annapolis Valley. Which included my annual stop at a farmer's market for pumpkin pie fudge. The only place I've ever seen it.




Pumpkin pie fudge and a hot cup of tea. No indeed. Life doesn't get any better than this.

pumpkin envy

Another year. Another wedding anniversary. Another weekend trip to a Nova Scotia inn. Not too far from home in case the teenagers in charge of the house run amuk and we have to return in a hurry.

So we're wandering through the town of Lunenburg, admiring the architecture, when I notice that one of the homes has pumpkins growing in the yard. I walk over for a closer look. Anxious to compare any visible pumpkins to mine. Convinced that my sincere little crop will measure up.

And then I see this . . .

A large orange gourd. Easily ten times the size of my largest pumpkin. Surrounded by several others not far behind in size.

I think it's best if I don't look at other pumpkins.

hello hideous kitty

A couple of Octobers ago, on a family trip to Salem, my children were given some money to spend as they pleased. There was no shortage of Halloween-themed merchandise in the stores. I believed they would have difficult choices ahead. My daughter, however, then around fifteen, made a purchase relatively quickly. Actually, very quickly. In the first store she entered. A purchase that she, and only she, was thrilled with.

It was the ugliest stuffed black cat I had ever seen. It wasn't plush. It wasn't posable. It wasn't well-crafted. It was simply a hard plastic cat form covered in a thin layer of cheap fur. I was appalled. I was then promptly reminded that I had said their money could be spent as they pleased. And I had said that.

So the hideous kitty returned home with us, riding in a place of prominence in the back seat of the car. Upon arrival at home, it suffered some damage to its tail when my faithful cat Lucky mistook it for an unwelcome intruder onto his territory. Unfortunately, it survived. Since then, it has remained in my daughter's room and mercifully, out of my sight.

Until now. After her most recent bedroom-cleaning, it appears that she has fallen out of love with hideous kitty. And so it has come to me. With instructions to "put it with the Halloween stuff".

I suppose I'll have to find a place for it. Somewhere. Or perhaps I can put it down next to Lucky. And let him finish the job he started.

it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Unlike many Halloween enthusiasts, I do not despise Christmas. Quite the contrary. I love Christmas. All of it. The music. The lights. The fruitcake. The wrapping paper. The mincemeat . . .

And for me, one of the highlights of the early part of the season is attending a local Christmas craft show. Admittedly, a large part of the attraction involves free food samples. Many of the same exhibitors return year after year and I "relish" the opportunity to "jam" myself into their booths and "dip" into their offerings.

But now on with the story . . .

Last Saturday, I arrived early and lined up beside the giant inflatable Santa with dozens of others. Once inside, I ambled through the aisles, en route to purchase my seasonal supply of cranberry mincemeat. Then something caught my eye. Something reminiscent of a past season. There between the handmade Christmas tree ornaments and the red-and-green place mats, I noticed a new exhibitor selling cards. Like this one:



So of course, I bought one. Christmas can always use a little extra creepiness.

a path of pumpkins

As the sun set on last weekend's scarecrow festival, the moon rose on the illuminated pumpkin path.

Over 150 jack-o-lanterns. Some gathered around a theme.

Others determinedly independent.

All hand-carved by an industrious woman, proprietor of a local market.

And while I admire the skill and creativity involved, I remain a jack-o-lantern traditionalist. Long live triangular eyes!