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.
