Did I mention the candy?

This time of year I find myself getting jealous. I know, as unseemly as it may appear, I really, really, want to go trick or treating. I want to get into a neat costume and join the neighbour kids going door to door in search of sugared loot. I want to scare and be scared. I want to ring door bells and dodge phony cob webs. Did I mention the candy?

Hallowe’en has always been one of my favorite celebrations. It was a once-a-year opportunity to shake loose from the daily humdrum of school and chores. Fantasy reigned. For one brief moment you could be anything your heart desired from a cowboy to a spaceman, from a pirate to the big bad wolf. Half the fun was just getting your costume together. And of course there was the candy.

One of my favorite outfits, and an award winning one I may add, was when I decided in grade six to go as Sheena Queen of the Jungle, a popular TV character of the time. It didn’t matter that there were two other Sheenas in the school, both girls, I was head and spear above them both. My mother’s discarded leopard skin bathing suit, a flowing blonde wig, sandals and that spear I had carved out of a poplar branch and I was set to go. When the costume parade was over at the school, I added the first place ribbon to my outfit. (To assuage your curiosity, my brief gender turn as Queen of the Jungle was only repeated once more when I received rave reviews for my performance as Bess the landlord’s daughter in a high school production of The Highwayman.)

The actual going door-to-door that followed later in the evening was subject to the same intense planning and co-ordination as the D-day invasion of France in 1944. You see, we lived on a dirt road where the houses were spread rather thinly over a large area and on top of that each potential donor had to be rated as to the expected quality of gift. We knew from experience which home would offer the much-prized “store bought” candy, which household would proffer home-made fudge and where you could expect rice crispy squares or, heaven forbid, a simple apple.

From there we plotted our route. It was designed to hit the best stops first even if this entailed doubling back to pick up the second-tier treats later in the evening. We also had to take into consideration younger siblings who were dutifully dragged along and urged forward with the constant admonition to “hurry up.”

Nothing was left to chance. By the time we reached the age when parental accompaniment was no longer required, we had come to the realization that the old paper bag with its two spindly handles was a non starter. It was far too small and subject to tearing at the least convenient moment. Some children searched out a plastic bag – a rare commodity in those days – but the truly professional among us opted for the pillow case.

In most instances this was not a problem since my mother always seemed to have a few extra on hand that she allocated for once-a-year Hallowe’en use. A minor difficulty arose occasionally when a candy apple or a piece of fudge slipped free of its wrapper and more or less became a permanent part of the bag.

The most important aspect of the entire evening came later, however, when we returned home. The accumulated loot was dutifully dumped onto the kitchen table and the “trading” began.

Each of us had our favorites and each had particular dislikes. Like traders in a Tangiers market place we haggled over each piece. “I’ll give you five candy kisses for a piece of Mrs. Wallace’s fudge.” “I hate candy kisses. Give me a tootsie roll and I’ll give you two pieces of peanut brittle.” And so it went, long into the evening until all were satisfied and it was time for bed.

In case you’re wondering, yes, we did eat some of our ill-gotten gains but only one or two pieces. The rest, at my mother’s insistence, was doled out a little at a time over the next few weeks. But oh it was fun!

IIn recent years, there have been many attempts to vilify this important class of pesticides. Each time we get beyond scratching the surface, it becomes apparent the studies are rife with bias and misinformation.

The fact of the matter is honeybee colony numbers in Canada continue to increase to unprecedented levels – at the same time that farmers have chosen to use neonic-treated seed to protect their crops. According to the Canadian Association of Professional Apiculturists, bee colonies increased by 27 per cent from 2007 to 2016. Suzuki and other activist groups conveniently overlook these facts and others that do not neatly fit into their fearmongering narrative.

Before any pesticide can be sold in Canada, it must be approved by Health Canada. Canada’s regulatory process is stringent, world-renowned, and ensures all pesticides that are used in Canada are safe for both people and the environment.

The pollen and nectar from neonicotinoid-treated plants is extensively tested, and time and time again pesticide residue levels are well below any level of concern for bees or humans. It is possible to detect residue at tiny amounts – but this does not mean there is danger.

Truth be told, David Suzuki is opposed to modern agriculture in general. History has shown us if he wasn’t complaining about neonicotinoids, he would just be criticizing some other tool used by Canada’s innovative farmers.

The implications of eliminating neonicotinoids would include lost crops for farmers, resulting in higher costs for consumers; harsher demands on the environment, as more land would be needed to grow the same amount of food; and less crops to be exported to a hungry world. Surely David Suzuki shares these goals with the agriculture community?

SINCERELY, PIERRE PETELLE PRESIDENT, CROPLIFE CANADA