Many Halloweens later

Again it is All Hallows Eve, and you are thankful that you have a choice about whether or not to eat Corned Beef. It is something that you now decline. Too many bad childhood memories.

The air is crisp, the night dark as you escort the group of children from mini mansion, to extraordinary over sized suburban dream. A group that includes your niece and nephew, along with assorted cousins. You reflect on how much Halloween has changed since you went out as a child.

Your black pointed witch's hat, and long skirt, may disguise you, and allow you the fun of dressing up again, but it hinders your ability to keep up with the kids, once again. You don't dare let them out of your sight, not even for a second. Although there are three adults, you are all carefully watching for cars, strangers, and bad candy.

"Do not eat anything until we get home and we can check the candy", the wicked witch next to you, the one who is your sister chants. Her long purple hair asssuming a livid color under the streetlights.

"It was never like this when we were kids, " remarks the other black coated, pointy shoed, hag. "Our parents could let us run free all night, we always came home."

"Times change, and besides this is the last year we can let them out, from now on it is all indoor parties, and vetted treats." it is just not safe here any longer.

As you run from house to house trying to keep up, you realize that each year there are less and less children on the street, but the proportion of candy given out has increased. Now most children run up to the door, scream "trick or treat," grab the candy and run, the hapless homeowner left holding the bag so to speak.

Smashed pumpkins litter the street, victims of vandalism, and lack of decent candy. But the kids that are in your group are too excited to care. They are outside in the dark, running around, and making a Halloween memory of their own.

Halloween memories

You are six years old, it is Halloween night. And it is the dreaded annual Corned Beef dinner again. The slice lays on your plate with the iridescent reflection glistening among the small yellow balls, that they tell you are mustard seeds. It doesn't make it any more appetizing for you. The vapid lumpy mashed potatoes, and pale green beans combining to make this a childhood meal you will commit to memory for life.

The remaining corned beef in its white square corningware dish, reigns supreme over the dinner table. What is left of the late autumn sun trickles in through the west facing windows.

" When will it be dark enough to go trick or treating? " you ask, squirming on your hard wooden seat. "Soon", is the reply, "but first you must eat your corned beef, before you can go out."

You choke it down, all cold and salty, the lumpy mashed potatoes clang in your stomach.

Your younger sister gurgles in her high chair, happily eating her meal with her fingers. You are a big girl now, and you can go trick or treating, she can't. You realize later that this is where decades of sibling rivalry started.

The neighbourhood kids, the really big kids, come to get you. Your mother opens the front door to them, as you step back in fear, because you don't recognize the torn white sheets with holes cut for eyes, or the hard plastic yogi bear, and clown masks that they wear.

Your mother reassures you, and thankfully watches you go off with children whom you have grown up with for the last few years. She doesn't worry about strangers, it wasn't a concern in those days. She could use the few minutes alone, with just your younger sister. Waiting for your father to complete the long after work drive to the suburbs.

Beside she has to give out the candy, portioning out just one piece per child, to be dropped in the old pillowcase, as they chorus "trick or treat" at the door. Their homemade costumes, and unaccompanied groups small and simple.

You run in the dusk, vainly trying to keep up with the big kids, your homemade costume tripping you up the stairs. Holding back the tears that threaten to overflow the plastic mask cutting into the skin below your eyes, your mood changes from sadness to euphoria.

Someone opens the door to a grinning, excited group of children screaming trick or treat. "Oh don't they look sweet" she exclaims. Mostly pirates, clowns, and hobos, make up the group.

The carefully portioned candy is given to each gaping pillow case politely held in order, with the youngest, and smallest first. A loud thank you, is echoed by all.

Then you are off, to catch up with the spirited big kids, running off into the dark heedless of danger, elated to be allowed out after dark, almost alone. A halloween memory in the making.

They have arrived!

They came today!

I won a set of the most gorgeous peacock blue dishes from Bekah at Country Mouse a few weeks ago.

If you have not read Bekah, then run over there and check her out. She is hillarious. I am not sure if this girl is a gen X, Y, or Z, but she makes me laugh! You will love her. Oh and there is Jacko, the wonder dog, who might still be a little bit under the weather. Find out why, when you visit her blog.

She sent me a email, describing her difficulties convincing the post office that British Columbia actually existed. Apparently they had never heard of BC, Canada. Her post office was more than willing to send them to the British Virgin Isles, or Great Britan. But she persevered and today is my lucky day!

Thank you Bekah, you have been most generous in sending me these lovely dishes. I am looking forward to using them for my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner, and my breakfast, and ........

The spookiest week of the year.

I have always loved historical sites, and as a child, we visited Barkerville, a turn of the century cariboo gold rush ghost town. Townspeople dressed in costumes, there were restored heritage buildings, and daily shows of the hurdy gurdy girls, kicking up their heels.

It was all fun, but what really fascinated me was the graveyards. The handmade markers telling a story, many of them tragic. I was especially fond of Scotch Jenny, a woman killed when her horse and buggy startled and overturned. There were rumours that her ghost would drive up behind a unsuspecting tourist, hoping to startle them.

My sister, Turf Toter, lives in the Okanagan, near a very old cemetery. With some of the grave markers dating back to the early 1800's. We visited it a few times, respectfully, walking through the paths, wondering who these people were. There were many people that died at one time, and it was a mystery that haunted me for many years.

While visiting friends that live in the Cariboo Interior, I mentioned my fascination with the mystery to them. We found out that his family being one of the founding members of the town of Enderby, had many relatives buried there.

They showed me a old album, full of newspaper clippings, photos, letters, invitations, all memories of a lives lived. It had been passed on to him, and was a historical treasure. In it were the clues to all the mysterious grouping of deaths. Original newspaper clippings, and photographs of the disaster.

A fire roared through the turn of the century town, killing many inhabitants, including a family that hid in a well to escape the fire. Many residents took shelter in the bank vault, surviving the blaze. Enderby rebuilt, and suffered another fire, and a flood. But to this day it still stands, a tribute to the pioneer spirit.

Me, I still have a fascination with old cemeteries, and gravestones, so look out, this is the spookiest week of the year.

Fort Langley

A foggy morning, cold and damp. We head off to Fort Langley, the birthplace of BC. The site of the original Hudson's Bay trading post, and now a national park.

A lovely small town atmosphere permeates this quaint and historic little village. Most of the newer building following guidelines to maintain the continuity. It is a coveted place to live.

We drove by the antique cemetery, with the fog rolling past, perfect for a Halloween month.

There is a restored train station complete with a caboose.

Antique stores abound, with shoes stores, restaurants, coffee shops and churches all lining the streets. You might even recognize the Fort Langley Hall, from various movies on TV.

During my college years I worked weekends at this tiny building, in exchange for watercolor lessons. Every time a train passed by, not further than 3 feet from the walls, I would have to run and grab all the pottery falling off of the shelves.

Fort Langley remains a favorite place for us to slip back into time, and always offers some great photo opportunities.

I would say I am in the garden, but........

It really is too cold to be in the garden.

So warm yourself up with these fiery pink dahlias.

And remember the summer heat

He's back

I've been spending a good chunk of time moping around, and sighing. Watching the empty doorway, and willing a certain little black and white cat to show up. The living room curtains were opened early in the morning, and left open until long after it got dark.

Bootsie has been gone for almost two weeks, and frankly neither of us were dealing with it very well. He was very sick again and we can only assume that he is being kept inside during his convalescence.

We diligently checked the potting bench many times a day, and watched the patio flooring for signs of little wet paw prints. Nothing.

Until last night, when his highness finally showed up, demanding attention and food, as if nothing had happened.

I missed him since I was working late, and have been checking the door for my prodigal kitty every 10 minutes, all day long. Not much else gets done.

Finally today I heard a faint scratching on the patio windows. Jumping up, my heart singing, I quickly let his highness in. A big cuddle was enjoyed more by me than the squirming bundle of inpatient kitty. Then we were off to discover what delights lay in wait for him in the fridge.

He is battle scarred, but he looks none the worse for wear, and seems to be up to his old haunts again. Sitting on the potting bench, surveying his kingdom, until he headed off to the next place on his route.

Gather the chestnuts while you can

It is a astonishingly beautiful, and warm day, even for the West Coast. Sunny and almost balmy, a coat is not needed, but I wear one anyways, there is always a leaf or something to pick up and carry home.

Setting out, I forget to take the camera, but I don't go back. I have been taking it almost everywhere with me, not wanting to miss a photo opportunity. I almost float down the sidewalks without the distracting weight of the camera banging from my shoulder.

On my walk, I window shop, and stop to peruse the flowers. I look around more, and see beyond the lens, viewing beauty without distortion.. It is a good lesson, in living life in the moment. Changing things up a bit.

I missed the shot of the colorful leaves drifting by on the sidewalk. And the chance to shoot a firetruck responding to a false alarm. But I took this opportunity to gather chestnuts, and falling leaves, and not feel compelled to photograph them first. To feel the sun on my skin. This time it was well worth missing the shot.

Change is a good thing....Right?

I've got a new neighbour. Actually I think there are 3 of them. Her, him, and a kitty.

She seems friendly, but curious, as the movers, and her friends, all parade past our bedroom windows. There is a smile on her face in the weak autumn sunshine. One that flickers like the light bulb on the brick wall that divides our patios.

I wonder what she thinks about all the plants on my patio, some of them overextending into the "common area" searching for more light. My garden is looking more shabby chic today, than upright and beautiful. The falling leaves, and fading flowers making it look as if it has just spent all day in its pajama's watching trash tv.

I wonder if she realizes that it is beautiful in the early spring. When everything around it is drab and damp.

Does she see only the stack of pots in the corner, and the huge pile of bright blue potting soil bags, squatting on a lawn chair. Or maybe she is distracted by the enormous sunflowers gracefully leaning over in their pot. Their vibrant fall colors and fading blooms blocking some of the view of our patio.

I know that the last neighbour did not like it at all. He was always complaining, as he smoked his odoriferous cigar on the deck. His raucous jazz treating the entire neighbourhood to his taste in music. That is usually when I had to break out the fish fertilizer, watering heavily until the smell drove him inside.

Maybe she is a gardener, and enjoys plants, that would be nice. It is about time we have a gardening neighbour again. Change is a good thing, right?

Or maybe it is time to break out the fish fertilizer again. I'll let you know.

The Laundry Guy

When I was single, I worked long hours. Housekeeping was something that got done when there was time. The dishes stayed in the dishwasher, the laundry never got out of the basket, the place was clean, and not too messy. You probably could drop by unannounced, but I would need a few minutes to clean up.

Things have changed, dramatically. No more clothes strewn around the bedroom floor, the dishwasher is emptied regularly. The laundry is done on time, folded and put away while still warm. The magazines, papers, and books are all tidied up and the floor is regularly vacuumed.

Drop by anytime, the place is clean!

Sure I love to cook, and he gets a homecooked from scratch meal almost everyday. But vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, doing the laundry everytime there are dirty clothes, Emptying the dishwasher, every day! Wow, who is taking care of all that?

It must be the laundry guy. Because I sure know for sure that it's not me.

I hear a symphony

Yesterday just before the dawn, I went down to the beach again, I am being drawn towards it lately. The astounding quietness, soft darkness, and the glowing light in the east, that gradually increases into bright reflections.

And while the beautiful light is compelling me to get up and travel down to a frosty wake up call, it is the birds that really make me want to visit.

There is something amazing about the shifting light, and the bird's response to it. When the sun finally reaches over the mountains, and crosses the beach to the water, the birds react. Like a orchestra warming up before the concert they seem to be suddenly more active, their honks and whistles louder.

Masses of them take off, wings whirring as they circle the wharf, only to land 100 yards away honking in some sort of satisfied way, that this spot is better.

And when the sun finally touches the edge of the water, their twitters, caws, and warbles send out the message that the concert has begun for the day.