It’s
October already! Where did the summer go? Sigh… pumpkins are everywhere I
look.
Fall
is upon us and though I dislike this season more than any other, it brings with
it one of my favorite days—Halloween. Guess there is no chance we could move
this day to June, July, or August? No? Alright, I’ll have to live with it being
in a month where trees delight many with their new outfits of red, yellow, and
orange leaves.
Where,
when did pumpkin carving start? An Irish custom, it seems carving began with
turnips, potatoes, or beets which were then placed in windows and by entrances
to scare away a ghostly character known in Irish tales as Stingy Jack. Seems
this Jack pulled a few dastardly tricks on Satan keeping the devil from taking
his soul after Jack died. When Jack succumbed, he wasn’t allowed into Heaven
because he’d been unpleasant and he couldn’t go to Hell because of his ruses
and was sent into the night by the devil with a lump of coal to light his way. Called
Jack of the Lantern by the Irish, the name became shortened to ‘Jack O’Lantern.
If interested, you can find more here: http://www.history.com/topics/halloween/jack-olantern-history.
I’m
an admirer of those possessing skills to carve pumpkins into horrific toothless,
or toothy, faces. Not a great one for carving pumpkins, I’m a huge fan of the Food
Network Halloween Wars and for years have watched some remarkable artists render
figures and scenes using some of the largest pumpkins I’ve ever seen—they need
carts to move these monsters around the set! Check out this short Food
Network video. Teams consisting of carvers, cake decorators, and pastry
chefs, come up with beautifully creepy displays. I work when it’s aired but I
binge on episodes later. I’m looking forward to this season! Tune in to Food Network to find out more and you’ll
be amazed at what these folks do with flour, sugar, and monstrous pumpkins!
And
since Paranormal Romantics is showcasing ghosts this month, I’m sharing a pic
from one of the
My
Halloween story from the Paranormal Romantic’s archives:
CARVER
Gone…
all gone.
Years,
he’d waited years to prove himself by taking his father’s place, and if his
truck hadn’t broken down, he would have made it. Shoulder to shoulder with
others like him, he’d have stood with the best of the best.
Clouds
covered the full moon casting ghostly shadows across the barren patch of land.
His chest heaved up and down, lungs burned with each labored breath of air.
He’d run for over three miles dragging the cart behind him. But there was
nothing left. Still wheezing, trying to catch his breath, he climbed the
highest peak and looked across the flat land. The glow of light from the
building, easily another two miles away, teased him. They’d all be there,
working their magic, preparing to be judged. Another year, he’d have to wait
another whole year. It was his turn to carry on the family tradition, but he
stood gazing forlornly across the patch. His father’s words echoed in his mind,
drenching him in sadness.
“We’re better than the best, we’re better than the rest.”
A
scurrying sound to his right drew his thoughts back to the present. Still
grasping the handle of the heavy cart, he turned, moving slowly down the hill,
back to his truck to stow his cart. It would be damn near a fifteen-mile trek
home. Home to give father the bad news.
“Here.” Stopping
dead in his tracks, he cupped his ear. Nothing. He was hearing things.
“Here!”
He’d
distinctly heard the word this time. Following the direction it came from, he
headed back up the embankment. Dragging the cart behind him, he went to the right
side of the hill and peered over the edge. Air hitched in his throat at the
sight before him.
One,
there was one left. And it was perfect.
But
he’d run out of time. No way could he drag his monstrous find to the judging
place and complete his task before midnight. Again, his father’s words rang in
his mind. We’re better than the best, we’re better than the rest. A
sharp gust of wind moved the clouds and bathed the hilltop in moonlight. Enough
light for him to work his magic. Loosening his backpack, he pulled out all his
tools. His knives were sharp, his chisels ready for the hard work ahead. Maybe
he wouldn’t make the judging but if it killed him, he’d take his finished prize
to the building anyway.
Digging,
cutting, shaping he performed his magic, did what came naturally to him. A
sense of calm washed over him as he finished fashioning his piece. It weighed
close to two hundred pounds but with strength and agility he’d never felt
before, he hoisted his prize onto the cart and eased it down the hill. Years
and years of this very same competition had left a well-worn, but rutted, path
to the building he needed to reach before midnight. Glancing up at the moon,
seeing its position in the sky, he knew there was little time left. Running as
fast as he could without toppling the cart, he began the trip along the winding
path. His lungs were on fire, air wheezed through his lips, but he didn’t let
up. Turning the final corner, light blazed through the open barn doors, voices
filled with awe seeped out, into the night. There must be great works there to
cause such adulation. Would his measure up? Was he truly part of these people
and did he have what his father had, and his father before him? At least he
wouldn’t have to wait another year to find out.
Tonight
he would know if he could carry his ancestor’s last name.
The
clock tolled midnight as he wheeled his heavy load through the doors and
dropped to his knees in exhaustion. A hush fell across the room. Standing, he
hauled his cart to the circle and removed his prize, placing it in the one spot
left. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out candles and began lighting those he
would need. Careful not to blow them out, he put each one in place and stepped
back, out of breath, unable to speak.
He
was last to be judged.
Elders,
men who had earned their name long ago, walked around his work, peeking through
the tiny windows he’d so lovingly carved. They touched the orange pointed
spires and whispered to each other. “We’ve never seen a cathedral carved so
intricately and so perfect.” The head judged looked at him hard, then smiled.
“Welcome Mr. Carver.”
Jack
had earned his name and it could never be taken from him.
He
was a true pumpkin carver.
Growl
and roar-it’s okay to let the beast out. – J.
Hali Steele
