Katie Pumpkinhead’s Pumpkin Patch

  I remember the day after Thanksgiving one year, I believe I was twelve or thirteen. I was sitting in my room, and heard noise outside my window. My first thought was that my two neighborhood 'best friends', who had recently decided they enjoyed each other's company far more than mine, were outside playing without me.  I went to my window, wrapping my arms around my corduroy pumpkin and some little turkeys I'd placed around it, and looked out.  I didn't see my supposed friends. In fact, I don't think I saw much of anything at all, as far as the source of the noise was concerned. But, what I did see, was a beautiful, gloomy, autumn afternoon, where a select amount of orange leaves still painted the gray sky.  I'd told myself that year, that perhaps I would feel a little better about Halloween's end if I tried to extend the autumnal feeling by decorating more for Thanksgiving. I'd always hated Thanksgiving, the boring holiday that dared follow Hallowe...

I believe I was fourteen years old the first time I tried to calculate the halfway point to Halloween. Fourteen  was the year I started to jtruly accept my eternal longing for Halloween as a part of me; a bigger part than I ever allowed myself to acknowledge in such a way before. I can't remember exactly how I did it. I just remember this little purse-sized calendar I'd gotten from a local Hallmark store, full of spooky doodles and quotes and sayings despite the fact that it had a pastel flower on the front and a list of traditional wedding anniversary gifts on the final pages. (I pondered these often. Paper? Clocks? Did anyone abide by this?) That calendar was like me. Outwardly very girly, very much what you'd expect from a basic female of my age, but the inside was full of everything I was afraid to express.  On the first page, like a warning, I'd written I like black cats and bats. Somewhere in the middle, a pair of eyes drawn over the calendar boxes of whichever mo...

 I had a random memory recently of a strange little story from my childhood; something I hadn’t thought about in many years. I thought it would be interesting to revisit it, as I don’t think I ever gave it too much thought after it initially happened. This could possibly be categorized as a ghost story, though it’s more likely just the tale of two spooky kids messing with each other. Either way, I think it’s kind of interesting. From the time I was about eight or nine years old, through my early teen years, I was best friends with a girl named Samantha. She was the granddaughter of my then next-door neighbors, and we were together pretty much every day during the summer, when she was basically living at her grandparents’ house. She did actually live in the same town, but in a different area, so we didn’t go to the same school and I rarely went to her actual home. Most of the time we hung out at my house, usually in the basement, where the majority of my toys and games and things we...

This is probably due to that one chapter in Karen’s Pumpkin Patch , the children’s book I wasn’t expecting to resonate with me even half as much as it did, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the night before Halloween. In most areas, it’s known as Mischief Night, but I’ve heard it referred to by other names too, such as Devil’s Night, Cabbage Night, and, as it is referred to in my area of northern New Jersey, Goosey Night. (Also worth noting, it’s my mother’s birthday. I asked her to trade me several times throughout my childhood, as a part of me didn’t think she “deserved” a Halloween-related birthday as the holiday meant very little to her.) I long wondered why it was called “Goosey” night. As a young child, I thought that there must be some famous goose that I knew nothing about, that had laid her eggs on a house many years ago, hence the “egging” tradition, but the true explanation seems much more simple: “Goosey” was just a term synonymous with being foolish or flighty ...

 It’s probably safe to say that I didn’t exactly “come of age” in the normal way, like you see portrayed in media. I’m thirty-four years old and still very much a “kid” in a lot of ways, some good, and some, admittedly, not so much. I’ve never had the same interests or priorities as “normal” people, and spend more time than I care to admit thinking I’m just simply not cut out for “adulthood” in the traditional sense, When I was much younger, I actually just assumed that either somehow things would magically fall into place, or I’d somehow end up dead before I ever had to deal with any of it. (Yes, I’ve always been on the morbid side. And, for the record, I didn’t have any specific thoughts on how I’d end up dead; I really wasn’t suicidal or anything. I just could never picture myself as a functioning adult and started thinking that maybe I wasn’t ever intended to make it that far.) However, I am mostly happy with who I am today, and I’ve been thinking a lot lately that, while it wa...

 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 acro...

 (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 person...

 Everyone has moments in their life when they feel like giving up. That feeling of “This is never going to happen, so why keep trying?” Sometimes it relates to a thing that would be trivial to anyone else, sometimes it’s about something more life-altering. But, we’ve all been there. I have moments of discouragement with this blog. Times I’ve told myself, “No one cares”, or “No one will read this”, etc., but I continue on, for the joy of it. And sometimes, something amazing happens. If you haven’t read my previous post,  Have You Seen This Pumpkin? , I would strongly suggest doing so before continuing on with this story. The short version is, I saw a pumpkin in someone’s window when I was twelve years old, and have spent the last twenty-one years trying to find it for myself.  When I published that post, I wasn’t expecting much of a response. I was really just hoping to hear someone say, “Yes, my family had this pumpkin when I was a kid!” Or “I once saw this in a neighbor’...

 Does anyone else get a deeply sentimental fall feeling when they see cornstalks?  For me, they just radiate autumn energy. There’s nothing that says “autumn” to me quite like seeing cornstalks arranged among pumpkins and scarecrows and hay bales, signaling that my favorite time of year is on its way. To hear them rustle when a breeze hits them, immediately takes me to a corn maze in mid-October, anticipating Halloween while trying to find my way around.  However, I recently remembered  why cornstalks are such a prominent, essential part of autumn/Halloween for me, and to say it’s kind of a funny story would be an understatement!  Somewhere between the ages of about five and eight, I went somewhere with my Aunt Trish one weekend. On the way home, she decided to stop at one of the local farms. I can’t remember if this was her original intention or not, but she decided, while we were there, to pick up her cornstalks for the season for her outdoor decorating. Aunt ...

Here’s a story I haven’t thought about in a long time, but it came flooding back to me today after a random comment on Instagram asking about one of my decorations. I’ve mentioned before that my Aunt Trish was always the one to take me trick-or-treating as a kid. We had a regular route we’d follow, and, being the Halloween fanatics we were, decorations we got used to seeing every year and looked forward to seeing again. No memory is so prominent, though, as the lamppost that would transform every year into the backdrop of a magical scene. We noticed it that very first year, when I was four years old. A lamppost at the edge of the walkway leading up to a house that was pushed a little farther back than the others. The lightbulb was covered with a sphere shaped fixture, and, when Halloween time would come around, suddenly the silhouette of a witch on her broom would appear, creating the magical illusion of a witch flying across the moon. For many years that lamppost rema...

Would you believe me if I said there was a time where even the slightest spooky thing used to scare me? Honestly, I almost don’t believe it either.  But there was a time, even though Halloween was always, and somewhat inexplicably, depending on who you asked, my favorite thing in the world from the time I was four years old, that most scary stories were a “no-no” for me. I could sit here for hours spinning yarns about the several years I spent afraid of mirrors thanks to Bloody Mary, or the nightmares induced by a monster made of slime on a show my teenage cousin was watching at our house one evening, but there is one very particular memory I’d like to talk about today. When I was little, there was a set of books in the library that I didn’t dare go near. A dark compilation of tales known as Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark. Looking at that book cover really brings me back. In my mind, the thought of opening that book was akin to opening the dreaded spell book...