Katie Pumpkinhead’s Pumpkin Patch

  Calendars, if you think about it, are fickle things.  Simple paper grids, dictating how we live. The seasons themselves, they have no regard for a box on a glossy piece of paper. And neither do those of us that know better. There is a world that exists, beyond what most people can see. Beyond winter’s frigid snowdrifts, beyond spring’s flowers in bloom, beyond the heat of summer. You can hear it calling, if you’re one of the lucky few that knows how to listen. In a stray dead leaf, on a still, dark night, in a breeze that’s just the perfect temperature. You can smell the burning leaves even under a foot of snow. You can see the happy, costumed trick-or-treaters in even the quietest doorways on the stillest evenings. You know the pumpkins are there, even when the fields look the most barren. Little ghosts send you signals, that your time never really ends. They work tirelessly to remind you, and the rest of the lucky few, that every day is truly Halloween. (Ghost by Salem And Company)

 I recall a silly song from a TV show of my youth, The Fairly Oddparents, in which the lead character sings a line about “a day that wipes the floor with the other 364.” Okay, okay. The song being sung was about Christmas, but the line has always resonated with me, because, obviously, I feel exactly the same way about Halloween. There is no other day on the calendar that comes close to fulfilling me as much October 31st.  But strangely, there is another date that always makes me happy when it comes around. For most people, this would probably be Christmas or a birthday. But oddly enough, for as long as I can remember, my second favorite holiday has been Valentine’s Day. Though nowhere near as exciting as getting the Halloween decor out, my heart always leapt when I would see my mother pulling out the little Cupid silhouette that always hung in our living room window. Choosing which boxed set of valentines I would pass out to my elementary school class was probably my second-biggest hol

 As you most likely have already noticed, especially if you know me on Instagram, a great deal iof my Halloween collection is handmade.  I love supporting artists, and finding pieces that are clearly made with love and an understanding of what those of us who love and live for Halloween want to see. As someone with a lifelong appreciation for art, but zero crafting talent, it’s super fun to see what other people come up with. I realize, though, when I think about it, that I have always had a deep love for all things handmade, which likely began in babyhood, as I was always being brought to craft fairs by my mother and aunts. Craft fairs were interesting places to me, and as I got older, I made sure to save whatever money I could scrape up for them, rather than just trips to the toy store. Craft fairs were magical places, where you truly never knew what you might find. Everything there was the product of someone else’s imagination, and you never knew when you might stumble across someth

  You hop off the hayride, so excited to be choosing your first real pumpkins of the season.  As a child, you always worried. What if you couldn’t find the right one? Your mother was only going to wait so long for you to make a selection. You didn’t want a pumpkin that was bruised or scratched or soft, or any other kind of imperfect that a pumpkin could be. It had to be just right. Now, though, pumpkin picking is a full experience. It’s not just about the pumpkins that will ride home with you in the end. Sure, you love to see the excited, sometimes envious eyes of the other patrons of the farm on the hayride back; you even instinctively keep your hands on your chosen pumpkins, just in case someone has the thought that they’re perfect enough to steal. But your time in the pumpkin patch is more precious to you, ultimately, than what you will take home. As you walk through the patch, taking care not to trip over vines or disturb the pumpkins that aren’t quite what you’re looking for, you

 (As a preface to this entry, I’m going to strongly suggest reading  this entry  first.) Every one of my Halloween decorations had a life of its own when I was a kid. It didn’t matter how big or how small, what its function was meant to be; even the faceless, real pumpkins were more than just decor. It’s highly likely that I even named the cornstalks tied to the mailbox. I treated each Halloween season like different installments in a movie franchise, or different volumes of a book series. The decorations would come out of their box and immediately begin going on all sorts of adventures, even if only in my own mind. No one was ever left out. To this day, when choosing items for my collection, I drift toward the things I immediately see a personality in. I’ve been told that I’m good at “capturing the souls” of the items I photograph, and that is because I truly see them. Even if I can’t always put things into words right away, I can assure you, I always see the personalities of my pumpk

  There is a time when the world becomes as still and cold as death. If you stand outside on one of these gray, dismal days, you will hear everything and nothing at the same time.  The silence is eerie. Deafening in the way you can almost hear echoes from a world you can’t see.  The only movement is the blowing of the wind. It sings to you in a different way than it would on a breezy spring afternoon, or when cutting through the summer heat. It’s calling you; warning you. You may never know which. You recall a time when you were a child, and you looked out the window, as a sparkling dust blew off a nearby snowdrift, and you thought that maybe, on this special, magical day, as that’s what snow days always were back then, you could actually see the wind.  You grew up to know better. The wind is invisible. Never seen, but always felt. But it isn’t the wind that’s with you now. As you stand in the stillness, taking in the eerie calm of an event that is the perfect duet of beauty and disast