Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Carving

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She likes pulling the top off at the stem, the way it can be placed right back like a corresponding puzzle piece. She’ll use a scoop but finds more satisfaction in her bare hands, stringy innards gripped with tenacity, pulled at until they give way. She’s the one to sort through the gourd’s flesh, retrieve each slimy seed, spread them on a baking sheet to roast to nutty perfection. The five-year-old shouts a reminder to save a few seeds for his garden; he’s studying plants, learning about spiders at school.

Then, the design. A template or a copy, stolen from a previous October or a Pinterest post. She never was good at coming up with artistic inspiration on her own. A traditional cat, an astonished ghost, a toothy grin with triangular eyes. The children need help with the markings on the convex surface, the wielding of sharp tools.

They place a tealight in the bottom of the hollowed out orb, set the creations on the front porch steps. Barely evening, it’s dark already, light from the jack-o-lanterns wink at those passing by. Children satisfied with the bright orange set against Benjamin Moore’s Newburg Green, they retreat to the warmth of the indoors to sip hot cider. Cinnamon and cloves suffuse the air as they gather roasted seeds to snack.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Tractor

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We arrive late afternoon, after the youngest wakes from her nap. Pumpkins first, the field is littered with families arranging their littles on orange gourds, with teens snapping selfies before disappearing into the corn maze. It’s the weekend, late in October so the pickings are slim. My five-year-old rushes to a perfectly rounded pumpkin, the appropriate size, just to be shattered when he realizes the rotty blemish on the bottom precludes this particular selection. My eldest squints from the harsh sunlight, peels off her fleece jacket as she rushes across the field in search of less picked over options. When sufficiently satisfied with our selections, we wheelbarrow them back to the entrance, pumpkins flanking the littlest for the ride.

Kettle corn is next, oblong bags hung on an apple cart, ready for sticky consumption. I like the crunch, the mingling of the salty with the sweet as remnants of kernels wedge between my teeth. Little fingers joust for a handful of the popular snack.

We meander to the petting zoo, a miniature horse and stench of pig slop greet us near the barn. My son clambers onto the old tractor, rusty and stationary. He turns the wheel this way and that, bares his teeth in glee. He hops down eagerly when I mention the slide.

They climb the hay bales to the top and glide down, side-by-side, each on a burlap sack. Parents wait at the bottom of the slides,cameras at the ready, crane their necks in anticipation of their child’s turn. A few revolutions and mine are ready to move on to the bouncing blog, an inflated rubber pillow of sorts, embedded in the ground. Children hop and skip across, as if weightless on the moon, as if soaring off a trampoline.

The toddler pleads for the tractor ride, a lumbering pull past the corn maze and the play area. The rest of us acquiesce her request, tiny squeals still ringing in our ears. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip with other families as they snap pictures, wave to those we pass. My youngest rests her arm on a stranger’s leg to steady herself as the tractor lurches forward. The woman smiles down at her as we make our way back along the dusty lane.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Leaves

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She walks with a wide gait, toddling down the sidewalk. Pausing at a crunch underfoot, she bends to pick up a dried leaf, yellowed and brittle. She examines it, hands it to you as if a treasure you should keep. It crumbles at your touch, leaving only the spine between your fingers, frail leafy remnants rain down onto the concrete below.

She’s enthralled by it all, gesturing her chubby finger, exclaiming with a noise that captures the essence of “leaf” without sounding anything like the word. As you walk home she squeals for you to stop at every tree, at every fallen branch. She reaches out to the Japanese maple in your front yard, afire this time of year. It was the one tree you asked the contractor to salvage when your house was remodeled half a decade ago. He looked at you sideways at the time: Why bother? But you knew. This tree would color your fall joyous.

Her pupils constrict as she touches the feathery crimson tip of a maple leaf, five points splayed out in reverence. Her lips curl as she considers the velvet color. “Leaf. Leaf. Leaf.” You repeat it to her as a mantra, as if a reminder to yourself. Each year it all changes – summer warmth to fall crisp, winter hibernation to spring sprout – but the words remain constant. You want her to learn so it will steady her, a foothold to rely on in this revolving world. You know the cycle, the recurrent pattern that must proceed. This too, the brilliant chorus of colors dancing, will tumble. But its glory today, blazing in the late October sun, is enough for you both.

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Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Pumpkins

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Pumpkins reign this time of year. Pumpkin spice infuses dense breads, pumpkin syrup sweetens lattes thick with foam, bulbous pumpkin costumes cushion costumed kids, oven roasted pumpkin seeds sprinkled with coarse salt are browned to a satisfying crunch. At the pumpkin patch my son collects them in his wheelbarrow like he’s hoarding for hibernation, rolling the lumpy gourds along the uneven ground, raising the smallest with handled stems above his head triumphantly. He’s working, intent on his task, unaware of the futility; we’ll only need a few of the treasures he amasses. 

We’ll carve them, paint them, light them from the inside. Set them out on the front porch steps. They’ll rot from the bottom up, browning and reeking, black mold creeping up the sides like sinuous coils of vines, a ruinous infestation. The children will dress up, pretend to be, gather their eager plastic tubs, pumpkin shaped with garish black triangles for eyes, nose, teeth. 

They like the flickering glow as jack-o-lanterns wink from neighbors’ homes. Each unique, each decaying from the moment they are chosen. Plucked from the earth, carved and admired for a fleeting celebration, a macabre exultation, as darkness descends into shorter days and longer nights, as the curtaining chill causes retreat into fireside evenings, woolen socks, cups of steaming tea cupped in chapped hands. 

Pumpkins serve a transition: the yellow summer glow into the crimson of the winter season. The jarring contrast tempered by this orange intermediary, tolerated, even embraced, if only for a month or two.

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