She looked so tiny, hidden under the covers, so warm and content, that I didn't have the heart to wake her. I'll let the smell of the coffee brewing do that.
It was a beautiful, cool October morning, and it was the day we would harvest the pumpkins. This year's crop was good; it looked like our roadside stand would be filled with future jack-o-lanterns, pies, and decorations.
She came out and smiled at me as she joined the farm workers, putting pumpkins in the wagon attached to the tractor my dad used for decades. I tried telling her every harvest she didn't need to help, but after a while, I gave up and understood.
With hundreds of pumpkins of all shapes and sizes at and around the roadside stand, the cars began to arrive. Kids ran down the rows seeking out the perfect one, and this went on for as long as the parents allowed, telling the kids to pick one out and bring it to the stand where apple cider and homemade pumpkin bread were waiting for them.
The day before Halloween, when pumpkins were seen on every porch, we would take the remaining ones, the ones with flat backs, no stems, too fat or too thin—the orphans, we called them. These misfits were cleaned and carved, then lined up from the house to the stand, proudly displayed with their own candles. I counted fifty this year that shined brightly behind the crazy faces so lovingly carved.
Car horns beeped passing by with kids shouting approvals we never grew tired of hearing. But there was one more time-honored tradition after the ghosts and goblins had finished counting candy and other treats when the pumpkins that once glowed brightly now sat with distorted faces, ready to be disregarded, as another Halloween had passed.
I would hitch the wagon onto the tractor my dad used and loaded all the fallen soldiers into it on the way to the fields, where we fed them to the awaiting cries of hungry animals. If you ever want to see what makes a pig smile, give him a pumpkin. I believe you'll smile too.
Mike 2024
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