Gourd Grief!

For more than half the year, pumpkins of every size, shape, and color live on my front porch. They arrive in late September and stay ’til their condition warrants a sneaky, middle-of-the-night visit to the green waste bin (which usually happens in mid-March into April). Some have been so dilapidated that when they are lifted by the stem (a.k.a. the peduncle), the fleshy bottoms drop off and splatter onto the pavement. 

Just how do these hardy squash come to arrive on my porch every autumn? There is a certain young man who spots them and asks for them and brings them home like they are orphaned puppies. Continuing with the puppy metaphor…Zach sees pumpkins as they begin to appear at grocery stores, nurseries, and farmer’s markets, and makes puppy eyes at you until you find yourself on line with all the pumpkins his (and your) arms can carry.

©KeriMeHome

Once the gourds get unloaded, they are carefully and lovingly lined up in “their spot” between the front door and the concrete walkway. The pumpkin selected for the #1 spot is placed so that “he” is still covered by the porch in the event of rain. Then, in strict column formation, every successive pumpkin takes his place in the lineup. The formation is checked every time we go out the front door; the Company Commander inspects and adjusts as necessary to achieve proper placement and squash symmetry.

©KeriMeHome

As autumn progresses and Halloween arrives, not a single gourd becomes a festive jack-o-lantern. No sir. These prize pumpkins are not destined to be carved and illuminated by flames on All Hallow’s Eve. Much like the pardoned turkey on Thanksgiving, these pumpkins are spared the carving knife. Their stringy and seedy guts stay inside, and if you, reader, will allow some personification for the sake of pumpkin tales, I suggest that these glorious gourds know they have been selected to sit proudly on our porch and provide semi-perpetual happiness to Zach. They are not disgruntled about remaining intact.

As outdoor sentries, the pumpkins become dusty, cobwebby, and cluttered with crunchy leaves. As any good shepherd would, Zach tends his flock of Cucurbita pepos with care and kindness, clearing their domain of debris. I’ve even observed him using the sleeves of his shirt to dry the fruit from dew and raindrops.

Imagine his glee recently when he spotted a giant wooden sign in the shape of a pumpkin at an intersection around town. He pointed and I read the sign aloud. It announced a fall festival with pumpkins for sale. We went to a few such events last year, but not nearly enough to satisfy. So, plans were made to attend this festival. 

Looking it up online, I made a note of the dates and times. The weekend weather was fairly warm; no cozy sweaters and hot cocoa at this event. It was looking more like short-sleeved polos and lemonade. 

Upon arriving, we did a loop to see what we could see. We usually don’t get out the door until after lunch time, so I was keeping an eye on time; the event closed at 5, and there was much to see. Most importantly, there was the pumpkin patch to get to. We could not miss that. After all, being in the patch, taking pictures with the patch, selecting friends from the patch…those were the top priorities!

©KeriMeHome

As we passed the patch, which was enclosed by chain link fence (not very picturesque if you ask me), Zach slowed his walk and gazed in. I took his hand and assured him that after we saw other things in the festival, we’d come back and he could select any pumpkins he wanted. I explained that pumpkins are heavy, and we didn’t want to walk around carrying heavy things. He nodded yes and on we went. 

I knew my homing pigeon was figuring the path back to the pumpkin patch with every turn we made through the fairgrounds. As people passed by with pumpkins hoisted on their shoulders, Zach watched with anticipation. We visited the art tables where children has festooned their little gourds with pom-poms, ribbons, buttons, and stickers (personification alert: imagine the chagrin of these poor gourds!). 

We wandered through the kiddie rides, telling Zach he was way too tall now to ride the flying pirate ships. We pranced through the craft booths and admired the workmanship of the potters and the photographers and the painters. And we walked toward the food trucks where we escaped the heat in some shade with watermelon sorbet. (October in California).

Photo Credit: Freepik

My phone said 3:50, and we were pretty much done with the festival at that point. I told Zach we could go to the pumpkin patch. He shot up from the wooden bench and promptly disposed of his cup, spoon, and napkin. Yes – he knew exactly in which direction to go. I followed, quickening my pace to keep up.

We arrived at what we thought was the entrance to the patch. There were hay bales set up like little straw pyramids, and on them, gourds of every size and texture. But three people in red t-shirts blocked the entry. I reasoned that they only allowed a certain number of people in the patch at one time. So we stood there waiting. Zach was patient and craning his neck to inspect the goods.

People were coming out of the chain-linked area, but the red-shirted folks were not letting others in. Strange, I thought to myself. What are they waiting for?

“Excuse me,” I said to a woman sitting at a folding table in a folding chair. She did not look up at me. 

“Hi, um, can you please tell me how this works? Do we need a ticket to get in?”

“We’re closed.”

It felt like a lead balloon landed in my stomach.

“You’re closed? The festival is open til five, and it’s not even four.”

“That’s right – we’re closed. We gotta do the money bags.”

My blood was starting to boil.

“Um, well, the festival closes at five, and it’s not quite four o’clock, and there are still people inside the pumpkin patch looking for pumpkins. Can you please PLEASE let my son and me go in and – “

“We are closed.”

“….GO IN AND PICK OUT ONE PUMPKIN….I WILL PAY CASH. IN FACT WE’LL GET THE LARGEST ONE AND THE MOST EXPENSIVE AND I WILL PAY CASH….”

“No, ma’am. We need to get our cash ready for picking up.”

©KeriMeHome

I wondered if this was “allowed” – to close early and not allow anyone else to enter the pumpkin patch at a festival that advertised its hours as 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM.  I was not going to have Zach feel squashed. So I pushed.

“How about this….can you or someone standing there {I pointed to the red-shirted teenagers} go get us one pumpkin of any size and I will hand you my cash right now, as you are getting your money ready?  Please. I promised my son that he’d get a pumpkin today, and I had NO idea the patch closed earlier than the festival…by the way, where does it say that?”

She glanced up and looked at Zach. She must have seen his headphones on his ears and the communication device under his arm. She had to have noticed he was taller than me, and that I clutched his hand in mine. Didn’t she notice how his eyes looked longingly beyond the fence at the precious pumpkins held captive there? Her eyes – after inspecting him – landed on me. Her expression was one of disdain.

She said nothing. She nodded no ever so slowly, and then turned her back on me. She shifted in her folding chair so that her back was toward me. And she certainly was not counting money or preparing a deposit.

Photo Credit: brgfx at Freepik

I had all I could do to keep from screaming at her. I wanted to kick pieces of hay at her. Find a rotted gourd and hurl moldy orange fleshy bits at her. Drop a giant pimply gourd on her big toe. SOMETHING. 

Zach began leading me toward the entry. The teens tightened their ranks and yelled “sorry – closed!” My face must have been redder than their shirts.

I squeezed Zach’s hand and said, “I am so so so sorry, honey bear. The pumpkin patch had to close early. But we will find you a pumpkin. I’m not leaving here without one for you!!” Zach nodded and somehow willed his sneakered feet to follow mine. I had thoughts of snatching one from the children’s art area. No one would miss a tiny pumpkin with hot pink feathers glued on, would they?

©KeriMeHome

The moments that followed felt like I was traversing Little Round Top at Gettysburg to locate my best soldiers. My eyes scanned the Sunday crowd while my ears took in the screams of tuckered-out toddlers. I even heard a fiddle coming from the music stage. Beads of sweat were trickling down my temples. I breathed hard – out of sheer anger and in an effort to calm myself. My mission was to find an employee of the festival. What I’d say when I found one, I didn’t know. I just wanted to track down someone, anyone, who might have a modicum of compassion.

Zach was keeping pace with me. I kept telling him we’re getting you a pumpkin, sweet boy. Don’t you worry.

And then, I saw a series of white tents, each with a logo on the top. I slowed my steps and scanned the occupants, most of whom were talking with people. Some wore turquoise blue shirts, and once close enough, I could see the logo on the pocket of the shirts. Bingo.

A young woman had just finished talking with someone. I took a breath and announced that I needed some help.

“Sure! What can I do for you?” she said, smiling. She looked at Zach and continued to smile. 

“I….am….in need….of a….pumpkin.” I was still trying to regulate my breath.

“Okay,” she looked puzzled.  I took a deep breath and put my arm around Zach.  

“Why does the pumpkin patch close before the festival? And is that announced anywhere?”  She knit her eyebrows and said she didn’t know…maybe they ran out of pumpkins?

I assured her they did not, and said we had no idea that the patch would close an hour before the festival, and that we had promised to get {Zach} apumpkinandhelovespumpkins and helooksforwardtopickingout special pumpkins every year and we tried to ask if we could JUST GO IN QUICKLY….I was rambling and out of breath again.

The woman looked at me kindly and said, “They wouldn’t let you in?”

“No,” I answered. “There was a woman at the entry at a table, and she would absolutely not let us in to get one pumpkin, nor would she get someone to get us a pumpkin, and I offered cash so it wouldn’t take much time…”. {There I went again. Breathe. Breathe.}

I noticed the beautiful freckles on the woman’s face as she tucked her strawberry blond hair behind her ears. She looked down at the ground. She adjusted her t-shirt and pulled the waistband of her jeans up. I stayed silent. 

©KeriMeHome

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Zach. This is Zach.”

“Hi, Zach. I’m Megan, and I’m going to get you a pumpkin. Will you wait here for a minute? Have a seat on this hay bale.”

Hearing her say his name regulated my pulse. We sat on the bale in late afternoon shade. I got my cash out and put the folded bills in my sweaty palm.

The pirate ships were spinning in a circle across the field. The food truck workers were taking out trash bags. The fiddler was still playing, and the craft booth selling fairy wings was still attracting little kids.

I sat in reflective silence, recalling how it would have been 15 or so years ago. A little boy with sensory challenges going to a crowded festival, wanting only one thing (okay, maybe two if you count sorbet) and being denied access to it. Such a situation would have left me splayed on the field and gasping after a full-scale meltdown threatened to rip the sleeves of my shirt off. I would have been in an instantly-escalating battle. It wouldn’t have been pretty, and it wouldn’t have been his fault…being denied access to something beloved, something preferred, was truly the end of the world at the time.  All youngsters experience that, special needs or not. I felt grateful for how the passage of time combined with a lot of behavioral work smoothed out all the rough spots.

Suddenly, Zach stood up. His head was turned left: he was tracking Megan. I think he knew just where she had gone. He began to bounce on his tiptoes (a sign of inner excitement). Megan’s strawberry blond locks jounced with every step she took. She tossed her hair back, and in her arms were pumpkins, which she carried like trophies. 

“So I brought you three, Zach. I didn’t know what kind you like, so I got a large traditional one, here (she placed it in his arms) and a medium one that’s a different color, here (he gladly took that one, too) and there’s a smaller one too in case you prefer those.”

My heart melted. I felt like Linus when he thinks he sees The Great Pumpkin rising out of the pumpkin patch – only Megan was our Great Pumpkin Courier.

Zach took the bags from Megan, who was visibly relieved from the heavy load. Zach was vocalizing his delight. I prompted him to thank her, which he did, and she offered a warm you’re welcome, Zach. 

“Here,” I said, holding out the cash which I hoped wasn’t soggy to the touch. “Please take all of this – ”

“No, no. My pleasure! Don’t worry about it. Please.” Megan shook her head and waved her hand back and forth in front of mine. 

“That is so very kind. Thank you.”

“I am sorry for the way they treated you over there. They shouldn’t have been like that. And I don’t know why they closed so early. We’re gonna have to get on that and find out.”  I felt she meant what she said.

Zach began heading toward the parking lot with his three new buddies. They must have been heavy for him, but he did not seem to mind. I think he was envisioning just where they would go when we got home.

At the car, Zach took his usual seat (back seat, middle) and placed the large pumpkin to his left with the medium and small fellows to his right. I swear he would have buckled them in if he could have.

That Sunday would have left a memory of a fallen festival, but because of one understanding and compassionate human being with a giving heart, it remains in my mind a fruitful festival. 

Zach’s pumpkins, the entire lineup, stand straight and proud on the porch. They survived Halloween, they will add to Thanksgiving decor, and they will be there for Christmas. And New Year’s. And possibly St. Patrick’s Day. I think our record is Easter. But long after they’re gone, the memory of Megan’s pumpkin pilgrimage will live on. 

©KeriMeHome