pumpkin (ale) in the sun

One of my pet peeves as autumn approaches each year is the dearth of pumpkin and other Halloween-themed beers in my city.  The country to the south seems to be absolutely overflowing with these concoctions.  Starting right about now.  But here? Nothing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch. The most I can hope for is a pumpkin-spiced beer from Quebec which may (or may not) appear on local shelves in time for October and Halloween. Or the lone locally-brewed pumpkin ale which, quite frankly, bears absolutely no resemblance in flavour to anything even remotely pumpkin-y.

So on my recent road trip to the US, I took the opportunity to purchase a few seasonally-themed beverages. And while I had no set time frame for consuming them, the fact that September is only two days away and with it the beginning of autumn (at least in my mind) seemed as good a reason as any.

So here I sit.  On the back deck. In the hot August sun.  Enjoying a Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale. I think I'm ready for fall.

abandonment

So after significant procrastination, I spent some time in the garden this evening. Cutting back overgrown shrubbery and deadheading perennials and pulling up weeds and planning some plant re-arrangement.

And watching the setting sun illuminate a spider's abandoned web.

I wonder where he went?



fun house tips

So I'm downtown at the Second Cup this morning. Indulging in a favourite but all-too-infrequent Saturday morning ritual of tea and scones and newspapers.  And as I approach the cash register, I notice today's tip jars.  The staff usually do something a little creative with their tip containers.  Sometimes trivia.  More often a choice of "options" for your tip.  Today's choice was between a haunted house and a fun house. Naturally, my hand hovered above the haunted house cup. Until I took a look at the clown on the fun house picture.

No matter how you picture them, clowns are creepy.

the leader

Despite my obsession with my front yard pumpkin patch, I have avoided photographing any of the developing pumpkins themselves. Lest I should fall victim to the Great Pumpkin Curse and lose them all.  Leaving me with only a depressing collection of photos with which to dry my bitter tears.

But now that a few have grown to potential jack-o-lantern carving size (small jack-o-lantern size, but jack-o-lantern size nevertheless), I've begun breathing a little easier. And feeling confident enough to record them for posterity.

This is the largest so far. Looking quite comfortable amongst the shrubs and perennials.

tales from the road (part three): Amish pumpkins

On our recent road trip south, we stopped briefly in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. And stayed a night in a village in Pennsylvania Dutch Country.   Intercourse.  Apart from the name, the village was notable in that it was the one place on my summer road trip that I encountered clear signs of Halloween.  Several shops even had jack-o-lantern creations displayed prominently out front. Mostly of the shiny, happy, smiley variety.  But jack-o-lanterns nonetheless.

I found this iron pumpkin-shaped candle-holder in a shop on Main Street.  And I gave in and purchased a happy, smiley carving of an Amish pumpkin-headed guy. I couldn't resist.

tales from the road (part two): ghosts and horses

Whenever I travel to a new city or town, one of the first things I do is look for an evening ghost walk.  Wandering the streets in the gathering darkness while listening to tales of restless spirits mingled with local history and legend is a favourite way to get to know a new locale.  And so it was in Colonial Williamsburg this summer.

Where, on a humid August night, stories of more than 200 years of ghostly wanderings mingled with the all-too-real aroma of horse manure. 

Authentic local flavour.

tales from the road

Having recently returned from a summer road trip to the south  (and by "south",  I mean the New England and Mid-Atlantic states)  much of my time is currently being devoted to organizing and labelling photographs.

And while there were few overt signs of Halloween (trust me, I looked)  there was quite often something a little creepy to behold. Sometimes right around the next corner.

In Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  Dark alley art at dusk.

. . . and suddenly, it's Halloween

Maybe I haven't taken my vacation during the first two weeks in August in recent years.  I'll have to look back and check. Because this year, it seems that, as I was preparing to leave . . . there was nary a sign of Halloween to be found. At least not in my immediate environment.  Lacklustre pumpkin growth.  No store displays.  No magazines. No nothin'.

And then I return from my road trip to the south.  And discover that an explosion of Halloween has occurred in my absence. My pumpkin plants are flourishing. A few tiny but growing pumpkins have me feeling cautiously optimistic about this year's crop. Stores have begun trading their summer shades for hues of orange and yellow and red.  And those harbingers of Halloween, Michaels and Dollarama, have begun setting out the witches and bats and spiders.

And then of course, there is my great late-summer weakness: Halloween magazines.  I know they always begin to appear right around now.  Yet it always seems a surprise when I see them.  Like the first snowfall. And while I usually accumulate them gradually, one by one, as I encounter them, my absence during the past two weeks has allowed them to build-up.  Unnoticed.  And un-purchased.  Leading me to venture out yesterday on a Halloween magazine shopping spree. The financial shock of buying several at once, as opposed to one at a time, was somewhat jarring.  But no matter.  My Chapters "Plum Points" stepped in to ease the pain.  And after all, it's Halloween!

Now all we need is a drop in temperature. And the appearance of those orange and black boxes of miniature bags of chips.  Then I'll be truly convinced.

pollen party

Okay.  I'll admit it.  I've been a little obsessed with my pumpkin plants since returning from vacation. I have ten days of neglect to make up for.  Albeit, ten days of neglect that they seem to have thrived upon.

But that's unimportant.

Because as I was conducting my pumpkin inspection rounds this morning, I discovered that I'm not the only one who's obessed with these plants.  No, it's not the slugs.  Thankfully, they appear to have moved on.  In their place, a couple of bees were simply revelling in the vast, open flowers. Completely oblivious to people sneaking up behind them with cameras. 

That's it, little bees.  Keep working.  I'm counting on you to deliver a good pumpkin crop this year.

growth

So I return home from a ten day road trip to discover that my pumpkin plants have all but taken over my front garden. Arriving just before midnight, it's clear that something is different. Something has . . . changed.   Even in the darkness, I can see their leaves looming above the other, once dominant but now dwarfed, plants. Their vines reaching out and strangling the coneflowers, the rosebush, the branches of my fledgling maple tree.  It looked a little spooky. And that, of course, is a good thing. I'm not sure what transpired here in my absence, but clearly, the pumpkin-growing stars were aligned in my favour.

Maybe if I leave town again, I'll return home to giant pumpkins.

beach monster

I love camping.  As long as it doesn't rain. And as long as there are indoor washroom facilities.  Last weekend's camping trip to a provincial park on the Northumberland Strait succeeded on both counts.

With the added bonus of a monstrous piece of beach art which I encountered on a walk along the shoreline.

the horror

Part of my daily routine at this time of year is to check on the progress of my front yard pumpkin crop.  Every day.  So I was delighted today to notice the appearance of several flowers.

And I wasn't the only one.  My delight was apparently shared by a couple of slugs.  Enjoying the recent wet weather and munching happily on said flowers.  They've since been moved to another location.  Somewhere more conducive to their health.

I'll need to remain vigilant.