A Patched Pumpkin Tale

When our neighbors said that we could pick vegetables from their garden while they were away, my kids and I were thrilled. We would be just like Little House on the Prairie, living off the land and not Albertson’s. Then my neighbors pointed out ‘the pumpkin’ that was in the midst of its growth cycle. Not to be confused with any old squash, this pumpkin was from a seed planted by their grandson the day he graduated from kindergarten, and was to be harvested for Halloween.

A large pit began to grow in my stomach. Call me clumsy, like my husband does, or just unlucky, but items seem to get inexplicably destroyed simply by my presence. My shopping cart hit someone’s car, my foot shattered my daughter’s favorite toy, my hand broke my mom’s opal ring, and the list goes on.

Nevertheless, I allowed the daily veggie visits, hoping for the best. Any time my kids approached the pumpkin though, I started waving my arms and screaming, “Don’t touch the pumpkin.” I could just see our neighborly relations going down the drain with a quick squish of a vine, the umbilical cord to the pumpkin.

As each day passed, however, my confidence grew. We were going to make it without destroying the pumpkin. Our neighbors wouldn’t hate us and therefore, we would not have to move. I took the For Sale sign down in my mind and relaxed a bit. That was until my other neighbor came over with a large basket of vegetables.

“Look at this unusual squash I found in the garden.”

My oldest daughter and I looked at it and screamed, “The pumpkin, it’s the pumpkin.” My poor neighbor had no idea what had happened--she obviously had not been informed of the squash’s nomenclature or its royal status.

“Let’s run over and check,” I suggested, “Maybe it’s not the pumpkin.” I turned off all the burners, grabbed my youngest from her dinner and ran across the street. We stood in silence as we stared at the empty patch.

“Yep, that’s the pumpkin,” my oldest daughter pronounced. I know my neighbor must have felt badly so I decided to do some research. I wanted to know who named the pumpkin the King of Halloween? Why not the watermelon or pineapple?

As legend has it, we have the Devil and an Irishman nicknamed Stingy Jack to blame for all those pumpkin patch field trips. Stingy Jack was a bit of a drunken trickster who liked to play tricks on the Devil. One night, he asked the Devil to turn into a coin so he could buy a drink. Instead of buying a nice shot of whiskey, Stingy Jack placed the coin in his pocket next to a silver cross that prevented the Devil from turning back. He refused to remove the coin from his pocket until the Devil agreed to not take his soul when he died.

One day, Stingy Jack died with nowhere to go--he was refused at the Pearly Gates and the Devil couldn’t take him due to his promise. After begging for help, the Devil tossed up an ember from the hell fires. Stingy Jack placed it inside a turnip, his favorite food, and set out to wander the night. Thus, we have the ‘jack o’ lantern.’

In England and Scotland, people carve their jack o’ lanterns out of potatoes, beets and of course, turnips. Since Americans like everything bigger and better, I guess we had to adopt the pumpkin as our favorite jack o’ lantern.

I felt prepared for my neighbor’s return. Fortunately, they weren’t too upset over the pumpkin incident. I shared the turnip idea since I knew there were some in the garden, but they weren’t interested. The idea of replacing it with a larger pumpkin and a vine from a commercial patch was discussed and dismissed. Finally, we agreed to remain true to our favorite skinny green pumpkin. It was certainly bigger than any potato or turnip.

My neighbor just came running over to tell me the news—our favorite pumpkin had turned bright orange practically overnight. Their grandson would be pleased. As for me, you’ll find me in the produce section of Albertson’s this afternoon buying a couple of large and extremely ripe pumpkins.

Behind the Orange Curtain

When I looked at my calendar today, I realized that we moved to Laguna Beach exactly three years ago. After packing up our house and cutting our possessions in half, we headed south for a simpler life. Less traffic, fresher air and a strong sense of community are some of the reasons we chose Laguna. Or more simply, it was the only place my husband showed me where I didn’t burst into tears.

At the time, my LA friends teased me that I was moving behind the Orange Curtain. In order to make my case to those poor souls still living up north, I have compiled the following Top Ten Reasons to Live in Laguna:

10. Laguna Beach is sixty miles from Los Angeles.
That’s the good and the bad of it. How wonderful to be close yet so far away from the Getty, Canter’s Deli, smog filled skies and Paris Hilton wannabes.

9. The traffic follows the seasons.
The traffic and crowds in Los Angeles used to drive me crazy. I would sit in my car yelling, “Where is everyone going? What is the problem here?” Now, I know based on the season when to avoid downtown.

8. Cute Firemen reside in the heart of downtown.
I don’t know what all the fuss is about the village entrance--I am completely content to drive past the Firehouse on Forest Avenue, especially when it’s polishing time.

7. You don’t have to watch the MTV television show, Laguna Beach.
Why would you watch the show--you live here. And if you do tune in, beware. It might have an adverse affect on you like it does my husband. Every time he sees it, he yells, “That’s it. We’re moving.”

6. Miss Linda’s Castle continues to entertain.
Where else can I take my children to learn how to dance and be entertained at the same time? I keep expecting a cocktail waitress to stop by and take my drink order, which would frankly make getting up early on Saturday morning a whole lot easier.

5. Dance, art and music are everywhere.
I recently saw The Parsons Dance Company perform at the CaDance Festival and was blown away by the movement and creatvity. So were the women who sat next to me—one from LA, the other from New York.

4. The flip-flop fashion code prevails.
Forget the Manolos and Michael Kors, the only shoes one needs in Laguna is flip-flops. The other day, I wore a dress with my Havaianas sandals and received the nicest compliment. Now maybe it was because I never wear dresses, but I am sure the shoes helped.

3. My telephone bills are at an all time low.
There is no need to use the phone since news travel fast. One or two chats with my neighbors and I am up to date. A quick phone call to a girlfriend and every one knows my news too. That’s called community.

2. Jan Brady lives here.
I have spent most of my life trying to be a Brady from the Brady Bunch--I got braces like Jan, broke my nose like Marsha, and got married like Carol. These days, I feel more like Alice, doing laundry and chasing kids. I do, however, have an occasional Mike and Carol moment with my husband--we sit in his office and smirk over how funny our children are.

1. The surf and the sand
My kids and I still say good morning to the ocean on our way to school. The ocean breeze and deep blue horizon can turn my mood around in an instant. And if that doesn’t work right away, there’s always a hot coffee and donut waiting for me at South Swell Donuts. Now that’s my kind of curtain, especially if one prefers sheers.

Bye-Bye Braces

I’m not sure if I loved my Orthodontist more when he told me two years ago that I needed braces because ‘you are too pretty to have teeth like that’ or when he recently removed my braces and revealed my new smile. Of course, I’m not talking love love, more like adoration for the man who took what my husband called my cockeyed teeth and made them straight. I also had a slew of jaw problems that neither a bite guard nor meditation could cure, only large brackets with a mélange of silver wires threaded throughout my teeth.

Having braces has been an absolute blast. I haven’t had this much fun since I tried natural childbirth. Each time my Orthodontist tightened the wires or rearranged a bracket, I left the office feeling so fabulous I was fighting back the tears. I’d call my husband for some sympathy and then treat myself to a Frappucino, a calming liquid lunch. But after awhile, the cold coffee just didn’t cut it. The nearby shoe warehouse started calling my name, “Come here Metal Mouth, let me soothe your pain with a new pair of sandals.” So as my teeth straightened, my shoe collection grew and grew.

Don’t get me wrong there is one advantage to being a Metal Mouth--I lost about ten to twenty years in my face. All of a sudden I started getting carded when I was buying wine or beer. The first time it happened, I started laughing, thinking the clerk must be joking but she yanked the bottles off the belt and asked to see my I.D. New acquaintances guessed my age in the early twenties and seemed incredulous that I had two kids and a Masters Degree. My advice to anyone considering a face-lift--get braces first.

But after a while, sporting a teenager face with a post-partum pooch lost its allure. Fortunately, I got the phone call--an invitation to be the matron of honor in a fancy New York City wedding. Now I’m not someone who usually likes to be in weddings. Perhaps it has something to do with my first bridesmaid experience when I was forced to wear a large purple gown with eleven other girls. We looked like a bunch of plums rolling down the aisle in a Fruit of the Loom commercial.

But this time would be different. This bride has fabulous taste. There was no doubt in my mind that this aisle walk could be my New York moment. I marched into my Orthodontist’s office and declared that my teeth were straight enough; I had a VIP social engagement and these things were coming out by the end of September. My Orthodontist saw the glint in my eye or perhaps it was the pair of pliers in my purse and fast tracked me into the final phase.

I prepared for the blessed day as if I were planning my own wedding. I ordered pastries for the office staff and a cake for myself. I bought new underwear and fixed my hair. When I picked up the pastries, a man drinking coffee heard me talking about my braces coming off and said, “But now you won’t look like a little girl.” I tried not to be creeped out and just embrace the fact that I was about to age ten to twenty years.

The brace removal process was delightful and reminded me of my first episiotomy. The wires were pulled, brackets yanked and glue shaved off my teeth. I was sad to say good-bye to my Orthodontist and the nearby shoe warehouse, but I know I will be back for my retainer and probably my kids’ teeth.

When my husband saw me he was thrilled to see my cockeyed teeth standing in a straight line. My four year old shrieked and my five year old said, ‘You don’t look familiar,’ which I understood. My daughters don’t remember me without braces. My mom asked me if I thought it was worth it. I hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” I finally replied. Having braces is like giving birth--the pain is intense yet when its over, we quickly forget and remember only the joy of seeing that brand new face.