Paying it back

For years, I've avoided the trick-or-treat brigade on Halloween night, and felt vaguely guilty about it. On Tuesday I decided to do the right thing and hand out treats at the door.

I don't have skeletons, pumpkins or any other signals of Halloween to put on display. But I found this little lamp that looked suitably mysterious when lit with a flickering candle and placed in the front window.

It was a miracle, when I was a kid, that you could knock on a stranger's door one night of the year and they would open it into the brightness beyond, and give you candy. Sometimes they tried to guess who you were (it was small-town Alberta) before they brought out the goodie dish, and in a few horrible instances they demanded a song or a recitation in return for their largesse. But mostly they just smiled at our home-made costumes and generously doled out the treats.

I haven't returned the favour. Because I never had my own kids, because I usually worked nights, because I know candy isn't good for anyone anyway, I never made a practice of handing out treats at my own door. For many years, I had the airtight excuse that I was working. Then one year I tried it and was appalled at how quickly the first run of cute kids in costumes turned into large teenagers in street clothes on the prowl for free sugar. Usually on Halloween, I turn out the upstairs lights and go downstairs to read.

But it always feels. . . just a little not right. Adults had opened their doors to me; in the scheme of things, I should be returning the favour. So on Tuesday I bought a box of mini-chocolate treats (the kind I would have wanted as a kid; none of those hard sugar candies or gummy fruity things), raked the leaves off the walk and turned on the porch light.

 About 12 kids in our child-starved neighbourhood showed up -- mostly smaller ones, mostly in costume. They were all delightful, with their fresh faces and polite thank-yous and greater or lesser attempts at costumes. But for me, the greatest charge was their excitement. It was a reminder of how it felt all those years ago to approach a stranger's door in the dark of night and do the forbidden: knock and ask for candy.

What kids would have seen as they climbed the steps to demand their treats. Unfortunately, there are so few families in the neighbourhood now that there aren't many children to make the rounds. Which meant lots of leftover treats . . . 

. .  .which I've bagged up for the freezer. It will be my emergency supply of sugar hits for the winter.

Gruesome Halloween

I've always thought the Roman empire has been given a bad rap. Gladiatorial contests, with humans killing each other in front of roaring crowds? People being set on fire and burnt like candles? Flayings alive? Surely Hollywood took a few hints from history and turned them into full-blown horrors to get their numbers up?

Alas, just in time for Halloween, the academic texts I've been reading on the Roman empire say I've been uncharacteristically optimistic about the human race. If anything, Hollywood has been restrained. That could be why the Halloween decorations on Vancouver's streets look different to me this year. Skeletons have always been around, but do we usually have displays of severed human limbs -- hands, legs, feet, unrecognizable lumps? Is it unusual to sit a ghoul on a chair and have it feasting on the red contents of an opened skull?

Fortunately, the lighter elements are around too -- the grinning pumpkins, the fuzzy spiders, the jolly-looking ghosts. But did one set of those ghosts have to be wearing chains that would have done a Christian martyr proud? And sadly, the grinning pumpkins I photographed are offering fireworks that can blow your fingers off. Happy Halloween!

A ghoul with a tasty dish of skull sits at a sidewalk table. If I was a child, I would be horrified at this scene.

Agh, the ghoul and skull weren't enough; a bloodied skeleton in white appears to be reaching for the skull.

A bloodied hand dangles from a hedge.

I couldn't get close enough to get a clear photo, but dangling from the overhang are the bloody stump of a sawed-off leg, complete with shoe. There is also a hand and what appear to be other body parts. The skeletons look benign in comparison.

A skeleton and spider dangle from an overhead line over the sidewalk.

A pumpkin with a shroud-like body and a twig-like hand dangle from a tree.

This hedge display looks just grim.

A jolly (or is it menacing?) ghost, chained to a tree. 

In this view, the ghost at least looks cheerful.

The figure of a dangling man juts out from the upper balcony of this house. It's not particularly gory, but menacing just the same. To the right is a giant spider's web.

Shrouded bushes and a severe figure in black and white on the steps make this a semi-scary scene.

The pumpkins are jolly, but the fireworks they're advertising are my own personal pet peeve. They scare my cat, and every so often, they blow some kid's fingers off. As a former newspaper reporter, I used to have to write those stories.

Gates of surprise

There are some "regular" gates on Saltspring -- the kind of wood or metal constructions you see everywhere. But on an island where people like to express their individuality and beautiful vistas abound, you can expect to see almost anything the first time you arrive at someone's door. Here are a few of the creative gates -- and entrance-ways -- I spotted on walks during our recent visit to Saltspring.

This gate opens onto a postage-stamp patio overlooking Vesuvius beach. It belongs to the little cottage across the road, named, of course, the Sand Dollar.  Everyone who passes wishes they could open this gate and sit awhile.

A further-back view of that delicious gate, the creation of an artist known for his work in glass.

This elaborate polished wood gate caught my eye because of its swooping curves and cutouts giving a peek-a-boo look into the property beyond.

Further on from the gate, the fence continues the theme of cutout windows. . .

... ending in a fabulous splash of pink from this cleverly planted shrub.

Back on the Vesuvius beach waterfront, an old door serves as a gate for another little lookout over the water.

Through what would have been a window, a view of the water and trees beyond.

Colourful gateposts emphasize the beauty of the pastoral roadway that is "Margaret Lane."

A closer look at the artwork that welcomes visitors to the houses along this stretch of road.

This would be an ordinary weathered-wood gate except that someone has cut out circles and added cross-hatching.

This entrance has no gate, but the berry-laden shrubbery almost hiding an old bicycle makes it  an eye-catching introduction to the artist's studio beyond.

An elegant weathered-wood gate, this one with a fancy planter at the side. 

Sometimes it takes awhile to get to the gate. Way up the driveway, a white wood construction awaits.

Yes, this is a gate, made of bits and pieces of this and that, assembled by the artist whose studio is beyond. I didn't try it, but I think it opens.

A stylized metal fish adds interest to this tall gate and fence. 

On the pedestrian gate of the same property, a sun figure greets visitors.

This property has no gate, but the entrance is obvious, emphasized by the sign: "Please do not block path." Two deer have taken advantage of the clear passage to feast on the lawn -- they're hard to see in the photo, but they're there.

The entrance to the cottage called the Sand Dollar is over a little bridge and through a white picket-fence gate. Not surprisingly, this cottage is a favourite with painters.

And finally, the vehicle gate into our yard. It goes a little past being weathered, with a fine crop of fungus and moss. 

A close-up view of the fungus and moss. John thinks this gate is due for replacement soon.

Its condition doesn't bother Mr. Darcy, who views the road from behind its protective slats.

Moving

John's cousin Janice and her husband Jim always find apartments with beautiful views. There'll be lots of sunset photos from this spot on the balcony of their new place at the University of B.C. Photo by John.

Janice and Jim were both students at UBC many years ago, so this move has brought them back to their beginnings. 

The dining room with its sky and cloud view.

Janice and Jim are impressed with the variety of great food in their new neighbourhood. On Wednesday, we tried the local pizza take-out place. 

As people who haven't moved house in four decades, John and I get a bit of a vicarious thrill out of observing those who do. How do they make that decision? we wonder. What's it like to abandon the well-known and wake up to different windows, different neighbours, a new location?

John's cousin Janice and her husband Jim have given us a glimpse of a more transient world, with their rentals in three different Vancouver apartment towers in the last few years. After they sold their house in Victoria, they bought a house in Palm Springs for the winters, but in summer,  they like to experiment  in Vancouver.

There was the light-filled apartment on the English Bay waterfront, with views of the ocean and an ever-changing scene of  walkers, swimmers, bikers, tightrope performers and buskers. There was the smaller apartment with peek-a-boo views of the waters of Lost Lagoon, and the seaplanes flitting in and out of Coal Harbour. And now there's a spacious penthouse with 180-degree views over the University of B.C. campus -- buildings, trees, clouds, and in the distance, the ocean and the blue shapes of Vancouver Island.

For John and me, rooted as we are in our Dunbar home, it's been a fun journey: From English Bay to Lost Lagoon to the University of B.C. without packing or unpacking a single box.

The master bedroom is big enough to accommodate Janice's painting studio too.

From the window, beautiful fall foliage.

Richard, Janice and Jim's son, is their personal IT department. After the pizza, he brought their tech devices up to scratch. Richard is in the foreground; his dad in the background. Photo by John.

Richard finds answers to his mother's questions about the ever-mystifying world of technology. Photo by John.

Couches

I've been reading lately about the Romans' use of couches. They didn't have much by way of beds, apparently -- mostly uncomfortable constructions in pitch-dark rooms -- so didn't linger abed, but, boy, they knew their couches! Cushioned and covered and set around a low table, these low-to-the floor furnishings were the setting for hours-long feasting. Romans reclined, oh heaven, to eat their sociable evening meals!

Anyone who knows me understands why I would find this fascinating -- and enviable. I like reclining, and I like couches; the high point of every day is morning coffee on the couch, preferably with a cat on my lap. When I study, I don't sit at a desk. I wrap myself in blankets on the couch, and take notes as best I can. Here are some couch photos from Saltspring, courtesy of John:

Carol contemplating on couch, with morning coffee. 

The view from the windows I'm facing. When the neighbour cut down three huge old trees, we got a water view.

Straight ahead from my perch, a view of the Cofton pulp mill across the way. At first, we wanted to avoid buying anywhere near the pulp mill, but it rarely smells, and I find it an interesting addition to the view. Our neighbour Kathy once made a beautiful painting of its steam clouds rising in the morning sun.

A little further over, toward the road, this is the view.

By nightfall, I have moved to the other end of the couch to do my reading. I'm still wrapped in blankets, though.

And the whole scene: the fire blazes, I have a book, I'm on my couch. Bliss!