Halloween Party, Sumas, 1980

A sculptor I’m not

A couple of years back, I listed the reasons I don’t like Halloween, luridly illustrated with misadventures and self-inflicted wounds, psychic and bodily, I suffered on Samhain. The post gets renewed traffic every All Hallows Eve, so here’s some further thoughts about things that spook me.

For three years we’ve seen not a single trick-or-treater. Perhaps the ominous “No Solicitors!” sign at the end of the strata’ drive had something to do with the dearth of little demons. Tonight, in our new home, we’ve been warned to expect hundreds of costumed little monsters at the door demanding sugary ransoms. Apparently, parents from miles around bring kids by the carload to scavenge our neighbourhood. Wishing to avoid the wrath of young ghouls and goblins, we have stocked up with $60-worth of Cadbury, Hershey’s and Mars bribes.  I even carved a pumpkin. I’m a little rusty with the carving knife but I managed to produce a passable Jack-o’-lantern. I found myself recalling happy memories of parties past.

On further examination of my anti-halloween harangue, I realize that by allowing accretions of bias to colour my vision, I’d perhaps broken a cardinal rule of the documentary tradition — surely weird celebrations like Halloween, where people let their demons out, are dream scenarios, nightmare or not.

Photographic evidence above.