November is nearly upon us

The rain began an hour ago, and the wind will pick up- by eight o'clock it will be a full blown gale. It is a good night to hunker down- I can start my library baking early (first biscotti of the season), finish my Halloween costume, or scheme for a decent girls' night menu for tomorrow. I should definitely burn my trash- that will be island romantic! Perhaps take a bath, which might go some distance toward curing the low-grade headache that has plagued me all day.

Alright- before I can go on, I really need a hot beverage. And some Advil.

Okay. Hot Ovaltine. The Downeast spinster's beverage of choice. Comforting yet thoroughly low maintainence. So shall we now cut to the chase?

Halloween is all about toying with death, the light and the dark, and all of the shadowy greys in between. Normally you just let the skeletons rattle, happy to trivialize the deeply frightening prospect of loss, and of the unknown. This Halloween has been something of an exception here because the remains have a name, and they aren't tidily put away in a closet, a casket, or a crematorium. Somewhere there's the body of a man that we all knew to some extent or another, and some loved, in a variety of ways- again in differing degrees.

For a week the community has been on tenterhooks as the news leaked out that he had decided to make a final journey to the island. The letters and money arrived, alerting the people he had uppermost on his mind; his friends looked and found his kayak, his affects. It stands to reason he followed through. No one knows precisely how, or where, and there is only endless speculation as to why. There was no high-profile search, no organized search at all- and I think that has pressed hardest on the community; left with nothing to do, people have sharpened their tongues, furrowed their brows. I cannot count the times I have heard "there's something weird about all of this." Yes. Death is weird. Death on an island is even weirder. Death on an island with no body? Weirdest. But not the time to whisper and slap your values on the people who are grieving and have the actual details. Of course, bereft of knowledge, I suppose conjecture is the main comfort of those left out.

At any rate, not being able to literally deal with the body has left the imagination free reign to convert this very real tragedy into the stuff of terror. Nightime walks are one of the great attractions the island holds for me, but those have soured, and my mind turns on me, even when I go out in the dark to light the jack-o-lantern, or get in my car. The wind lashes at my hair, and I wonder how the elements are treating him. Was there really an end to it? Was it ugly, or was there the poetry he seemed to have desired? Will he wash up, or will he sink into the earth, and will anyone have to bear the burden of discovering him?

So we approach this Halloween a haunted people, getting on with life, and passing by the passing strange.