Pumpkins on the Porch

There’s a smear of yellow brightening the gray morning sky, dry leaves rustle in the cool breeze, and there are pumpkins on the porch. A new season has arrived, and I am ready for it.

In a long-gone season, I was the parent of young ones, and we carved pumpkins. At our old house, over three decades ago, I remember sitting in the driveway, pumpkin poised on newspaper, taking direction from four wide-eyed children. With laughter and anticipation, they scooped the inside clean and imagined artistic greatness. Thankfully, they were not disheartened by the simple triangle features we ultimately produced. Then we packed the newspaper and pumpkin guts into a bag and sprayed the remnants of our mess off the driveway with a garden hose.

In a matter of weeks, our jack-o-lantern collapsed and had to be discarded. But months later, a vine appeared in the culvert. A pumpkin vine. A beautiful, wide-leafed reminder that good experiences plant themselves and return as memories, sometimes in the most unexpected places. 

For a season, I was the teacher of young children. My precious students – kindergarten and first grade – sat in a circle, giggling, brimming with excitement as we passed a heavy pumpkin around and sang:

Once, I had a pumpkin, a pumpkin, a pumpkin,

Once, I had a pumpkin with no face at all…

Then I carefully cut the top, and appeased little hands that were eager to touch the sticky, gooey, messy middle. We dragged the innards into a colander and scooped until the fleshy inside was smooth. Under their enthusiastic direction, I carved out shapes for features and we laughed and laughed together.

The next day, we ate roasted pumpkin seeds, admired our jack-o-lantern, and giggled again as we remembered. We began with a dream, traveled through a sticky, gooey, messy middle, created something wonderful, and ultimately tasted the reward. Isn't that just like life?

And then there was my pink pumpkin season. It was the year I'd journeyed through breast cancer, and by late October, had completed my treatment. I was no longer teaching primary children; I taught language arts to middle schoolers. We were making plans for our annual pumpkin decorating contest, and my students suggested pink, in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness. We painted, we primped, and we popped out the pink! And a simple pumpkin lightened the load of a life crisis and brought that difficult season to its conclusion with joy.

My family is now in the season of painted pumpkins. Our schedules are dictated by busy-ness. Pinning down a date for the annual pumpkin party is a task, but the tradition continues. We no longer cut and carve and scoop out the messy middle because our pumpkins usually need to make it through many weeks on display. Instead, we paint and create and laugh and share and make new memories together.

Seasons come and go, and change is inevitable. My children are grown, and my season of teaching has passed. Now, I am in the quiet season. The season of slow mornings and long conversations. The season of grandchildren and grace. The season of remembering and writing.

And so I write, as I sit here by the pumpkins on the porch.

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