October's a pretty solemn affair and pacific laid.

The rest of the country loves this time of year, an excuse to embrace their inner darkness,

to turn the very real horrors of the world into bedsheet ghosts and warty witches and things

that go bump in the night.

But our town has ghosts of a different kind.

They sit at our kitchen tables, they walk the sidewalks with us, they wrap us in their

phantom arms as we lie awake in bed, missing them.

Disaster does that to a town.

It's been over a year since the quake that ripped through the nevurgates, and by now,

we've repaired what can be repaired.

Homes have been rebuilt, schools are back in session.

The hanging rock is once again serving drinks and getting the good people of pacific

laid ship-faced on Saturday nights.

But for the people who lost friends and family in the quake, people like me, there's still

a broken piece in us, a piece that even time hasn't been able to set properly.

So for us, October is a time to remember all the spooks of the season can't hold a candle

to the legacy of the dead.

My son, Stephen, has grown apathetic towards Halloween over the last couple of years.

Something about being a high school senior has made him too cool for it, I expect.

But he still loves the tradition of picking out a pumpkin for the front stoop.

Sheriff Marconi and her wife, Janine, came with us this year to find the perfect one.

The farm down on Minnow Street had a nice selection, as we wandered down the rows, sipping

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