Culled from my late, lamented blog where I tried to flex some old writing skills, long rusty from lack of use.
It already has a caption. During a quick Hallowe’en dinner — gourmet pizza from Salvatore’s — Kristina distilled this memory to its essence, while telling my sister and her husband about our day. She said it was like we were Pumpkin Warriors.
Yes, yes, exactly that! Pumpkin Warriors for Peace. Sniffing the Atlantic Coast, creating little pockets of joy and happiness each time we stopped.
But first things first. Hallowe’en has always been important for Kristina — her childlike wonder always ready to bubble forth — and it’s now become a blessed day of remembrance for me.*
We woke yesterday at 7:30, already weary. We had been carving pumpkins all Tuesday evening, and I didn’t even start making our caramel apples until 10pm, which meant that I was finishing my troubling, toiling brew well past the witching hour. But Wednesday dawned crisp and beautiful, and we had people to see, and lives to brighten. So we bounded out of bed as quickly as we could manage, joints stiff with cold and fatigue.
One part of me is a little sad, for we abandon Lunenburg on this, the scariest of days. The town is old and creaky, home to many old couples and empty nesters, and probably a few haunted houses. But we were told last year that we could expect a handful a trick-or-treaters, at best. That would be OK, if we hadn’t been caregivers for so long in the capital city’s dead zone.
You see, before Lunenburg, we lived in a busy downtown neighborhood, near Halifax’s commercial heart, just across from an historical cemetery. All Hallow’s Eve would come, and we’d be ready… a bevy of carved pumpkins, special handmade treats, bags and bags of more mundane offerings, cobwebs aplenty, and frightening music on the loudspeakers.
But we were surrounded by stores, and high-rises, and student housing. And the graveyard.
So no one came. Well, I shouldn’t say no one, for two or three neighborhood kids would happen by, along with whatever wee ones were in residence at a nearby social agency. So maybe two or three more. One year, seven. Oh, and the two kids we adore, who were Kristina’s charges when she was a Mary Poppins-style governess.
So hours would pass with nary a peep, and we’d find it hard to remain cheerful, knowing that my sister, living just six blocks away, would see more than 200 trick-or-treaters.
So last year, when we were invited to another sister’s home for Hallowe’en, we jumped ship, pumpkins-at-the-ready. This year, her home is an unholy mess, with a broken water pipe turning the lawn and front stairs into an avalanche of slate and dirt. She tried to cancel, but we wouldn’t hear of it.
First, we stopped by my oldest sister’s place in Black Point, on St. Margaret’s Bay. She had a long list of computer questions, and I spent two hours connecting a new Canon printer, and helping her uncover hidden veins of productivity, while Kristina carved two pumpkins. Lorraine was thrilled to learn of OS X’s latent power, and unexplored richness, and so she was smiling broadly when we left.
By 2:30pm, we were in Halifax, deep in the South End, the city’s richest neighborhood. My slightly-older sister had been unexpectedly called away the night before, and her pumpkins sat aloof and unloved, just as we expected.
Pumpkins Warriors to the rescue! Kristina grabbed her wood carving tools — and a few specialized implements — from the trunk, and walked to their garage, keying in the password to gain admittance to the house. So professional, so focused.
We had our work cut out for us. A handful of bright orange gourds waited, expectantly, wishing to be transformed. Or is it transfigured? Either way, you will find no no patterns in our toolkit. We’re old-fashioned now, purists. We prefer a rustic edge to our carving that truly speaks of our love this season. Kristina is the master, and I but a humble apprentice, still eager and happy for this role.
By 4pm, we had to leave, ready or not. We left behind a small orange family on the doorstep, with belated happy birthday wishes for my sister.
Then darting through the thick traffic — no one navigates Halifax better than this streetcar — to yet another South End neighborhood prized by professional couples.
Hmmm, yes. The front yard was a disaster, but we created virtue from disarray, quickly removing boxes filled with rocks from the wall lining the driveway, then planting Kristina’s Jack o’ Lanterns along its length. She then retired to the kitchen to create frightening ladyfingers — a la Martha Stewart — while I carved the two pumpkins my sister had purchased.
All went according to plan. We readied our treats. Kristina turned my face into a weathered skull with a quick makeup application before she waved her own wand, becoming a dark, but fetching witch. A few quick pieces of pizza for warmth and sustenance, and we were stationed in the driveway, to better direct ghosts and ghouls away from the construction work.
They came en masse. Hogwart’s witches and wizards, devils and pirates, iPods and princesses; hordes galloping along the street with barely-contained enthusiasm. Over the next three hours, we dispensed almost 200 treats, dancing to songs like Ghostbusters and The Monster Mash, and teasing kids who would let us.**
Alas, the batteries in my camera died, so we had to settle for the few blurry shots that I managed… photos that I would have deleted, if I had the power. But I include a few images here, for color, such as it is.
Many delightful moments. A lovely little witch who went and stroked Kristina’s intricate raccoon, thrilled by the details. A kind neighborhood mother who proclaimed our menagerie of pumpkins as the best she had ever seen. A proud, pint-sized trick-or-treater who was both graciously polite and thrilled to spend a minute among kindred spirits. A wee lad, dressed as a strong man, who giggled infectiously when I poked his six-pack. And, as always, Kristina’s gentle smile, a sweet dart aimed unfailingly at my heart.
The night ended with an empty loot bag, and three gorgeous high schoolers who were charmed when they received the caramel apples meant for Emma and Isaac, who failed to show. They loved our Walk of Pumpkins, and appreciated the handmade treats, for they spoke to youthful memories they obviously still held dear.
Kristina had forgotten her coat at Gail’s, so we backtracked to her home, and found her talking to a tall group of twenty-something trick-or-treaters, split equally among the sexes. Two Aussies, one Kiwi, and one Swiss Miss. All came from places that do not recognize such a holiday, at least not on this night. They were great sports, so attentive, and we enjoyed talking about Hallowe’en, remembering scary nights gone by.
It was a soft ending to a wonderful day.
And now I love the memory, just one day old.
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* But more on the blessedness of Hallowe’en in another post.
** I have a theory that as you travel farther north, fall and winter holidays take on more significance. And so I expect that Hallowe’en in Nova Scotia might be more important than Hallowe’en celebrated in Florida. Perhaps readers will prove me wrong.
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