all-new scenes of zombie mayhem

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. My son's book of choice to accompany him on a school trip. Nice to see him taking an interest in the classics.

But it will have to come highly recommended indeed to persuade me to read it.

I find Jane Austen tedious. With or without zombies.

But it is fun to look at the pictures. "A delightful comedy of manners. Complete with romance, heartbreak, swordfights . . . and thousands of rotting corpses."

ghosts of halloween past

Torn from the family archives . . .

Well, not exactly torn, but in my attempt to complete the numerous incomplete projects around the house, I've been working at updating scrapbooks. And I can't simply update them without taking time to look through them. Which may explain why so many projects remain unfinished.

While updating one of the scrapbooks of my son's life and times, I found this drawing. Expressing an early love of Halloween. With a definite affinity for grim reapers brandishing sickles.

damage control

It didn't feel windy. That day last fall when I very carefully, or so I believed, added a final coat of black spray paint to my graveyard fence. It was so still in fact, that I abandoned my usual practice of spray painting in the backyard and moved the final stage of this project to the deck. That was my first mistake. But I was careful. Diligently protecting the deck. Waiting until the air felt perfectly calm.

Nevertheless, when I turned around, filled with the satisfaction of a completed project, there they were. Paint splatters. Tiny but numerous. On the back of the house and, most prominently, on the back door. My immediate response was a panicked attempt to wipe the paint off. Unsuccessful. Next, I tried an abrasive scrubbing pad. No good. What to do?



And it was vital that the paint splatters be removed before being noticed by any family members. Otherwise, I'd never hear the end of it. For the remainder of my days, every time I picked up a can of spray paint, I would have to endure a re-telling of my misfortune. A cautionary tale for the ages. This had to be avoided.

So I quietly entered the house, remembering to appear "casual" if anyone should walk in, and gathered some rags, a bucket, and a product which had been sitting under the sink and which boldly promised to clean almost any stain. Almost.

Then, in desperation, I grabbed a bottle of turpentine from the shed and tried that. Nothing. At this point, I considered the possibility of doing a commercial for this particular brand of spray paint. Because once it attached itself to something, it clearly wasn't going anywhere. I briefly wondered how much such a commercial might pay; enough to have the house professionally painted?

Then, I realized something. It was mid-October. Summer was over. I was now the only person still spending time on the deck. The cat and I. Maybe I didn't have to do anything right away. And so the paint splatters went ignored and thankfully unnoticed throughout the remaining fall and winter months. Periodically, I found myself hoping the cold might freeze them off. Or perhaps the blowing snow and freezing rain might deliver a sand-blasting effect to the back of my house. But no.

The warmth arrived and the paint splatters were still there. Any day now I might be sharing the deck with others, and while they are not the most observant group of people, they might actually notice black paint on blue and grey. The time had come to act. Luckily, my winter sand-blasting fantasies had given me an idea. The next best thing to sand-blasting: sandpaper.

It was one of the few times I've been happy that most homes on the East Coast are made of plastic. Or more accurately, vinyl. The sandpaper worked brilliantly on the vinyl siding. Sure, if you look closely, there are some scratches. But if no one noticed black paint, they're not likely to notice those. I was thrilled. Apparently, hibernating on the problem over the winter had paid off.

But not entirely. The sandpaper that had worked so well on vinyl was a total failure on a steel door. There was only one solution remaining. More paint. If you can't clean it, conceal it. Off to the basement. To the land of leftover paint.

There I found the black paint I had used when my son wanted his room painted black. I carried it up into the light of day, and several brush strokes later, the splattered paint had "disappeared". There is truly nothing like black paint for covering up more black paint.

I'm feeling quite pleased with myself. I wonder if anyone would notice if I painted jack-o-lanterns along the bottom.

pumpkins' progress

They're alive!!

The first pumpkin plants have emerged from the soil. On their way to sincerity.

long week's journey

Once again, those intrepid souls at Canada Post have successfully completed their mission. Sort of. Delivering a package from Quebec to Nova Scotia, across the vast province of New Brunswick, would take time. I knew that. So I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And when it seemed like I'd been waiting a ridiculously long time, I tracked the package.

Imagine my surprise. It seems it hadn't taken it that long to arrive after all. It was here. They just hadn't bothered to tell me. Kudos on another job well done.

And thank you Pumpkin Brain for your contribution to my small but expanding collection of Halloween-themed beer label art. They'll fit in beautifully.

yard sale season

First yard sale finds of the season. A collection of old weathered lanterns that will have a new home on the front porch in October. They were scattered amongst a pile of metal and plastic in the back of an open trailer on someone's lawn. She said they were things her father had collected over a lifetime. I wonder if he's aware that his daughter is selling off his memories for a dollar apiece.

good old-fashioned plastic

I'll admit it. As a child, my Halloween costumes of choice were the ones with the cheap plastic masks and flimsy suits. After all, why put thought and effort into creating a unique costume when one could be purchased that looked exactly like the character you were attempting to become. Exactly. Why you could even assume the identity of your favourite television character.


Like Steve Austin. Or perhaps his evil overweight twin brother.




You could become Morticia Addams. After an especially hard day.

Or maybe one of the Brady Bunch. It doesn't matter which one. Your choice.

Why not go a step further and disguise yourself as a real celebrity. Like Ali the Vulcan.

Or amaze your friends and neighbours with an uncanny likeness to a teen singing sensation.

I used to wonder why the those outfits always displayed the picture and the name of the costume's identity. Now I think I understand.

Source

favourite ghost stories: prince's lodge

In honour of Victoria Day, a ghost story with a connection, admittedly indirect and tenuous, to Queen Victoria herself. Sort of a "six degrees of separation" ghost story.


This domed building, once a music room, is the only structure remaining of the 18th century estate known as Prince's Lodge. The prince in question was Edward, Duke of Kent and 4th son of King George the Third. As the 4th son, there was little chance of his ever acquiring the throne, so he was permitted to roam the world in search of adventure and purpose. Not needed in England, he was encouraged to make himself useful elsewhere. One such "elsewhere" was Halifax, where he spent several years in the 1790's as Commander of the British Armed Forces here and, by all accounts, straightened out the seedy little town.

But he didn't come alone. He was accompanied by his girlfriend of many years, Julie St. Laurent, and they lived on a newly renovated estate overlooking Bedford Basin, and soon to be dubbed Prince's Lodge. In his personal life, Edward was a hopeless romantic: he designed meandering footpaths on the grounds of the estate that spelled out the name "Julie" and he oversaw the creation of a small heart-shaped pond nearby.


In his professional life, however, he couldn't have been less romantic. He was strict, uncompromising and priggish. He was fond of rigid discipline for himself and he expected no less from the men under his command.

And that brings us to the ghost story. Although Edward entertained lavishly on the grounds of his estate, he expected his guests to adhere to his strict code of behaviour. No drinking. No gambling. No behaviour of any kind that he perceived as a moral shortcoming. One summer afternoon in 1796, Edward and Julie were hosting a large card party on the estate lawn. And as sometimes occurs at large parties, two guests, Colonel Ogilvie and Captain Howard, got involved in a heated argument. Tempers rose to the point that the matter could apparently be settled only through a duel. Swords were drawn. Howard killed Ogilvie but was also mortally wounded and died soon after.

When Edward learned of the incident, he was incensed. Someone had neglected to remind the two men that duelling was high on the prince's list of unacceptable behaviours. He ordered the unfortunate pair buried in unmarked graves precisely where they had fallen, and stripped of all military honours. And that was the end of it.


But years later, long after the estate had been abandoned and had fallen into disrepair and the railroad was being cut through the property, two skeletons were uncovered. Their graves unknowingly disturbed, Ogilvie and Howard naturally rose and resumed their battle. From that point on, as the fog drifts in off Bedford Basin, people have been certain they could see two men, swords raised, duelling in the shadow of the old music rotunda at Prince's Lodge.

And what of Edward and Julie? They left Halifax in 1800 and several years later, against all odds, it appeared that Edward's three elder brothers would die without surviving children and it was now up to him to marry a princess and provide a legitimate heir. So, since romance doesn't keep the monarchy afloat, he said farewell to poor Julie, returned to England, married a German princess and provided the country with its longest reigning queen: Victoria.

corked

Back when I created a collection of ornaments for my shiny new Halloween tree, I intended it to be the first of several. But as with many of my projects, those good intentions ended up on a back burner. Then up on a shelf. Then in the back of a dark, dusty, cobwebbed closet.

But one day, as I was finishing off a bottle of wine, the cork beckoned to me. "Halloween tree ornament," it whispered. Perhaps it was the wine talking. I prefer to believe it was the cork.

And indeed, it was the perfect size for a tree ornament. So out came the paint, and it was transformed into a wine-cork-o-lantern.

Another bottle of wine; another cork-o-lantern. Another bottle of wine; another cork-o-lantern . . . You get the idea.



Two thoughts come to mind. The smell of burning cork is not among my favourites. And I seriously need to reduce my wine consumption.

a walk in the park

Another bright sunshine-y day. And another wonderful day to be unemployed. Another benefit: the opportunity to attend more of my children's school functions during the day. And so it was that I was able to enjoy the warm sunshine on the Common while watching my daughter's softball tournament. Punctuated of course, by breaks for latte and ice cream and a walk through the public gardens.



Where I noticed an abundance of orange flowers . . .

. . . but nothing even approaching black. Hopefully the city landscaping staff is working to correct this imbalance.

bright sunshine-y day

One of the positive things about being temporarily unemployed is being able to spend a beautiful Wednesday afternoon sitting on my deck in the warm sunshine, enjoying a glass of wine, listening to the latest installment of Hauntcast, and watching the plants grow. And my reliable Goldflame Spirea can always be counted on to deliver intense October colour in the middle of May.

next stop . . . the twilight zone

No time for a Mother's Day post yesterday. Too busy enjoying my dinner and gift. There is certainly something comforting about tradition. If it's a tradition that you enjoy. On Mother's Day, I can expect to have dinner at one of my favourite Chinese restaurants. Which I did. And because my children have come to know me well over the years, I can expect them to pool their meagre funds and present me with a gift card to Chapters. Which they did.

So after filling up on fried won-tons and Kung Po chicken, I grasped my shiny new gift card and drove off to browse contentedly. Because contrary to what the greeting cards say, sometimes the best part of Mother's Day is the time you have to yourself. Ironically, I can usually list several books I would love to have at any given moment. But when I have cash (or gift card) in hand, I can't seem to find any of them. And then, when I had almost given up hope, I saw it. A new book celebrating one of the greatest television shows ever produced. And rather than an encyclopedic listing of every episode, this book promised to delve deeper. Focusing on half the episodes and exploring Rod Serling's intentions, ideas and connections to each one.

My Mother's Day was complete.

I hurried home, made a cup of tea, grabbed a pillow and blanket, and settled in on the couch.

Nothing says "Happy Mother's Day" like creepy apparitions, misshapen aliens and a gnawing sense of unease.

Hopefully, everyone's day was as enjoyable.

pumpkin seeds

Throughout my childhood, and for decades before, my family always planted a vegetable garden. And as I recall, it always thrived. Seemingly effortlessly. It produced enough vegetables to easily meet our needs. There was even enough to sell to local grocery stores.

Perhaps because of this successful gardening heritage, I was convinced that if I ever tried my hand at vegetable gardening, I'd be a natural. It had always appeared so simple. So basic. How could it fail?

It has only been in recent years that I have attempted to grow my own vegetables. Years of apartment living and summer schedules not conducive to weeding, watering and maintaining a garden made it impractical. Not to mention my general laziness and the proximity of great vegetable markets.

When I finally decided to add seeds to soil, I was faced with two obstacles: the pile of rock that I call home and a pathetically small yard. Both of which led me quite logically to containers. It made sense. I wanted to start small and I had been assured that most vegetables could be grown successfully in containers. So simple. So basic. How could it fail?

While I have no real evidence, I blame roaming bands of neighbourhood cats. The wooden containers arranged on my deck could have been easily confused for litter boxes. An honest mistake. If the little nocturnal creatures were at fault, they were certainly selective. Because all was not lost. My lettuce, dill and chives continued to grow beautifully. As for my beans, carrots, cucumbers and basil . . . it was tragic.

Since that fateful summer, I have held tight to what works. Thus, I've enjoyed weeks of fresh salads and herbs. And stopped at the nearby vegetable markets for everything else.

But now, as my thoughts turn once again to my garden, I feel ready to experiment once more. Not with containers of assorted vegetables this time. Those memories are still too raw. Instead . . . pumpkins. Until now, I've never considered planting pumpkins. Mostly due to the aforementioned lack of space. But then I happened upon an article about growing pumpkins vertically. Using a trellis or a tomato cage. Sounds great in theory. But what happens, I wondered, when the pumpkins become large and heavy? Still, the author appeared to have complete confidence in his method. Who am I to doubt him?

So, armed with a package of pumpkin seeds, I laid out my planting strategy. Sure, I'll try the vertical approach. But just in case, I'll also plant one row horizontally in front of my shrubs. One row shouldn't require too much room. Right? To avoid potential heartbreak, I'll vary the location. Some in front of the house. Some in back. And because I'm anxious to get started and dare not plant seeds outside yet, I've planted a few seeds in pots on a sunny windowsill.

And so it begins. I'm hoping for a sincere pumpkin patch.

orange and black and blue

So I'm sitting on my back deck. Basking in the sunshine with my faithful cat, Lucky. Relaxing after hours and hours of raking, weeding, and moving plants around. Enjoying a glass of blueberry wine. Eyes turned toward the clear blue sky and the trees that line my backyard. And at that moment, a perfect combination of sunlight and shadow converged to paint the buds on the trees a beautiful contrast of orange and black.

Halloween just seems to sneak up on you at the most unexpected times.

gifted

Day after day, I made the trek halfway down the street to my mailbox. Trusting naively in the efficiency of Canada Post. Believing that their delivery estimate was a worst-case scenario. Surely it wouldn't take that long. I could drive to Toronto and back at least eight times within that time frame. If I didn't need sleep.

And then one day . . . there it was.

Quickly shutting the mailbox door, leaving the bills for another day, I dashed back to my house. Parcel in hand. And eagerly began to tear it open with my bare hands. It wasn't long before I was faced with a hard truth. Bare hands don't work well on multiple layers of packing tape.

Returning from the kitchen with sturdy scissors, I continued the task. I successfully removed the outer layer of packaging. Only to reveal . . . more packaging. And it warmed my heart to know that my parcel was so safe and secure and well-protected on its long arduous journey. But now the protective coating had to go.

Finally, a glimmer of hope. After cutting and tearing and cutting and tugging and cutting, the package began to reveal its contents.

And there at last it stood before me. Shiny and metallic and colourful and much taller than I had imagined.

Perhaps at this point, I should explain.

Months ago, in the dead of winter, I began rambling about Halloween-themed beer and my love affair with the imagery that frequently graces the bottles. I came to the conclusion that it wasn't actually the beer itself that appealed to me, but rather, the labels. I felt I'd be perfectly happy to have someone keep the contents and simply send me the container.

And someone did.

Fellow blogger, Ghoul Friday, very kindly packed up and sent me an extra container she had in her possession. And packed it very well, I might add.

And that wasn't all. As an extra surprise gift, I also received this nifty Silver Snail Comics bag. Thanks GF! I love that store. How did you know?

free comic book day

Once again, free comics have saved the day. With a little help from Frankenstein's monster.

an award!

Imagine my surprise when I learned I had been chosen to receive an award! For what, you may ask? Well . . .


"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the Zombie Chicken, excellence, grace, and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse . . ."


Yes, I think that describes me quite well. I haven't gotten an award since Grade 4. It's been all downhill since then. Thanks, Diane. I'll put it over here on my shelf.

However, I'm going to live on the edge and NOT select five additional recipients. I'm curious to find out what a zombie chicken's wrath involves.

halloween in the comics: annoying children

Whenever I look at this cover, I'm reminded of a murder mystery I once read in which an obnoxious child is murdered at a Halloween party by having her head held under water while bobbing for apples. Be watchful, Tubby. I've never trusted Little Lulu.

But the title "Most Annoying Children in Halloween Comics" undoubtedly goes to the team of Sugar and Spike.

Sugar, despite her name, appears to be the ring-leader in these situations. Personally, I'm hoping that witch deals with them once and for all.

The Grand Comic Book Database