happy halloween

Happy Halloween!

giant

Sometimes a tree just isn't big enough for more than one ghost. Giant tree ghosts: "There can be only one".

the weight of water

The trees were built with rain in mind.

They knew a dry and calm final week in October would be too much to hope for. And they were right. It always rains in late October. Always. And they were ready. They had plenty of support. Or so they believed. They were standing for a day and a half when the meteorological gods noticed their presence and sent the deluge. They stood bravely as the rain and the wind intensified. They were resolute. Shuddering only occasionally, they stood firm. For a time, it looked like they would make it. They survived the first day of pouring rain. And the second day. But by the third day of relentless precipitation, they'd had enough. They were weakened. They were tired. They were broken. And they simply couldn't take anymore. They had been prepared for rain. Just not so much rain. Just not day after day after day of drenching rain. And wind. Let's not forget the wind. Saturated and sagging, they finally gave up and doubled over.

Fortunately, rescue arrived in time. They are now recuperating on the veranda. Under the watchful eye of the dead tree branches. Waiting for the rain to stop. Not sure when that might happen. Hoping to dry out and regain their former strength in time for a weekend appearance.

scare-less crows

Once again this year, I took in a local scarecrow festival. And once again, no self-respecting crow could have possibly been scared. Probably not even a little nervous.

last leaves

Took a walk through the neighbourhood yesterday to enjoy what remains of the autumn leaves . . .

good intentions; bad memory

Weeks and weeks ago, when I first heard about the Davis Graveyard's Spiderfest 2010, I decided to create a spider and send it off to Oregon. I gathered my materials. A broken bike helmet. Paper and paste. Gardening wire. Cotton puffs. Old wine corks. And I set to work.

The spider turned out reasonably well. I was rather proud of the little guy. I applied a last coat of paint and put him behind the shed to dry.

And then I forgot about him.

And then it started to rain. It rained and it rained and it rained. It rained for days.

And when I finally remembered the spider behind the shed, he was a little . . . soggy.

He eventually dried out. But he was no longer the spider he had been. And he definitely wasn't feeling up to a cross-continental flight. So the storm-ravaged spider will be spending Halloween amongst my haunted flowers and trees. And I'll be working to improve my memory in time for Spiderfest 2011.

success!

So upon my return to the specialty liquor store to pick up the bottle of Ghost Town stout which I had so callously rejected on my previous trip, I discovered that I was incorrect about its origin. It is not produced by the same New Brunswick brewery responsible for the mediocre Dark and Stormy Night, but by a Quebec brewery called Brasseurs de Montreal.

Furthermore, it appears that my local liquor store has entered into some sort of seasonal beer pact with Quebec breweries. Because suddenly, there were several Halloween themed bottles from which to choose. Many with names that required all my powers of high school French to translate. So nice to see my favourite liquor store branching out.

I walked out of the store with Ghost Town. And Corne du diable. And St. Ambroise Pumpkin Ale, which had been recommended to me by a fellow blogger, but which until this year, I had never seen on the shelves.

Yes, it was quite a day.

As expected the Ghost Town was very . . . stout. But pleasant. And filling. In fact, it would make a nice autumn meal all on its own. I may need to revise my previous opinions of stout. The Corne de Diable was bitter and almost undrinkable. But the St. Ambroise Pumpkin Ale . . . The St. Ambroise Pumpkin Ale was fabulous. Finally! After years of fruitless searching. Years of dashed hopes. Years of crushing disappointment. Finally, a pumpkin beer that tastes as a pumpkin beer should. With autumnal flavours of pumpkin and nutmeg and allspice and a wonderful cinnamon aftertaste.

My dreams have come true.

down to the wire

With five days until Hal-Con and seven until Halloween night, things have been a little chaotic around here. The four Tusken Raider costumes, however, are almost complete. Needing just a few finishing touches. Like teeth. The creation of the heads has been a challenge, taking more time than all of the remaining parts of the costumes combined. If I had realized just how much time, I might never have started. And would now be putting the finishing touches on my Golden-Age Catwoman costume.

In retrospect, it's been a learning experience. For the most part, an enjoyable one. And as challenging as it was, the real challenge is coming up next weekend, as I attempt to balance my geek side with my Halloween side. I feel a Jekyll and Hyde moment coming on.

boo

I'll often see a recipe or a photograph in a magazine and think: "I must try that". But more often than not, I promptly forget about it or run out of time or just never quite get around to it. Such was the case with Mashed Boo-tatoes, which were featured in one of Martha Stewart's Halloween issues a few years back.

They looked adorable. And easy. I just never seemed to think of them when I had a pot of mashed potatoes in front of me.

Until earlier this week . . .

I know. It's difficult to spot the difference between Martha's and mine. The similarity is uncanny.

Although, my potato ghosts seem to bear a striking resemblance to the Michelin Man. Which reminds me, I may need new winter tires this year . . .

take no prisoners

I'm still not sure where they came from. Maybe they were attracted by one of my fall-flowering perennials. Or maybe they have a nest under my veranda. Wherever they came from, they simply refused to leave. They harassed me incessantly yesterday as I attempted to set up some props in the yard.

It was time for decisive and ruthless action.

Most times, I tolerate insects. Sometimes, I even like them. But when they come between me and Halloween . . . well, the choice is clear.

This early casualty fell on my front step. Beside the pumpkins, appropriately enough. Where I hoped his carcass might serve as a warning to his brethren. Much like the head-on-a-stick intimidation tactic of the Middle Ages. Unfortunately, the others didn't seem to comprehend the message.

Insects have no common sense.

evil has a new face

While wandering around my neighbourhood this year, I've noticed something. There are far fewer giant Halloween inflatables. There's no denying it. Their numbers are on the decline. Sharply. Fewer giant inflatable pumpkins. Fewer huge grinning ghosts. Fewer big plastic black cats.

But even as I rejoiced in their absence, I noticed something else . . .

This decrease in giant inflatables is in inverse proportion to an insidious proliferation of smiling happy scarecrows. Suddenly, these creatures are everywhere. And I suspect they are not nearly as friendly as their faces might suggest.

Sure, it began innocently enough. Just a lone scarecrow peeking out unobtrusively from behind a shrub.

Or reclining quietly and non-threateningly on a doorstep.

Even playing the victim on occasion.

But suddenly, their numbers grew. They gathered in groups.

Until they finally stepped from the shadows and corners to dominate entire front yard displays. Still smiling. Always "friendly". Maybe too friendly.

Giant inflatables vanishing. "Friendly" scarecrows appearing. Coincidence? I think not.

. . . and then there were six

(Can of pureed pumpkin for sizing purposes only. Not intended for intimidation of surrounding pumpkins.)

The final harvest has taken place and in the end I find myself with a grand total of six pumpkins. Instead of my earlier, more optimistic prediction of eight.

One pumpkin tragically rotted on the vine. Just when it seemed to be doing so well and on its way to becoming the largest of the crop. I blame insects. Or perhaps sabotage by the second largest pumpkin.

I coped with the loss and resigned myself to seven pumpkins. And then the six year-old across the street offered me a dollar for one of them. How could I refuse? And no, I didn't take the dollar.

So now there are six. And considering that last year, there were none, I'm calling this a successful season.

grasshopper grief

It's not often that I become completely stymied by a prop. Many of them don't turn out the way I originally envisioned them. And I'm okay with that. They transform and take on lives of their own. And I'm usually pleased with the results.

But this grasshopper . . .

Perhaps basing a prop on childhood trauma wasn't such a good idea.

A big part of the problem is that I planned to create him entirely out of recycled materials and old prop parts and whatever else I could find lying around the house. Foam football head. Pool noodle body. Legs of wire and leftover Tusken Raider vinyl. Krazy Karpet wings. And I remain committed to this goal. Even though I think it might be easier to get into the car, drive to Home Depot, and solve my problems there.

The problem isn't the entire grasshopper. I'm okay with the head and the thorax. It's the abdomen; more specifically, the legs. The back legs. The grasshopper-defining legs. The legs that put the "hop" in grasshopper. I used old metal curtain rods as the core. It worked well for Tusken Raider Gaffi sticks, so why not here. They're wonderfully bendable. The difficulties began when I tried to cover them. Thicken them. Fatten them up. I tried pipe insulation, styrofoam, plastic, wire . . . I began running out of household junk options. Something I didn't believe possible.

The struggle continues. If all else fails, I may just embed the lower third of his body amongst the shrubbery. Which, oddly enough, was infested with grasshoppers this summer. More than I've ever seen before. It's like they knew.

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.

it was a dark and stormy night

Dark and Stormy Night lived up to its name. It was certainly dark. And if "stormy" means a sour aftertaste, it succeeded on both counts. Suddenly, the pumpkin ale isn't looking so bad.

But at least I have a new bottle for the collection.

the inner sanctum

Inner Sanctum is one of my favourite old time radio shows. A mix of mystery and horror. Often campy horror, but horror nonetheless. Always entertaining. Apparently, Universal Studios thought so as well and obtained the film rights to produce a total of six Inner Sanctum movies during the 40's, the program's heyday, which became ongoing vehicles for its bankable star, Lon Chaney Jr. And I was lucky enough to stumble upon the set of all six of these movies languishing on a clearance rack earlier this year.

Or so I believed.

Most of the Inner Sanctum radio shows I've listened to would be considered horror. Sure, there were some that suffered from the "Scooby-Doo Effect" of a real person disguising his crime as a supernatural force, but the show would never be mistaken for a detective story. But perhaps Universal wasn't aware of this.

These movies are each little more than an hour long, so I watched two last night. I chose Dead Man's Eyes and The Frozen Ghost. Horrifying titles indeed.

In Dead Man's Eyes, Chaney plays an artist who is accidentally blinded and finds it difficult to cope. His sympathetic elderly future father-in-law wills him his own eyes, to be transplanted after his death. Naturally, he's dead within days.

Wonderful, I thought. I know where this is going. The eyes will retain the essence of the old man and our hero will be possessed by the visions of his fiancée's deceased father.

But no. They were just ordinary eyes. And the remainder of the movie was a detective story focused upon finding the murderer.

Onward then to The Frozen Ghost. Obviously a horror movie.



This time, Chaney plays “Gregor the Great”, a well-known hypnotist who may or may not have killed a man through a mind trick during his stage act. The incident troubles him, and after leaving his girlfriend/stage partner, he takes refuge at a wax museum/mansion run by Madame Monet. Because isn't a wax museum the obvious place to take refuge when you're feeling troubled? Madame Monet then mysteriously disappears after fainting during an argument with Gregor. Was she killed in the same hypnotic way?

Wonderful, I thought. I know where this is going. The creepy assistant at the wax museum is turning people into wax figures. Or perhaps the wax figures are alive and are themselves responsible.

But no. They were just ordinary wax figures. And the remainder of the movie was a detective story focused upon finding the missing woman.

As 1940's B-movie whodunits go, these weren't terrible. They just weren't terribly spooky. But there are four remaining. I haven't given up hope. Not with titles like Pillow of Death and Weird Woman.