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.