Apparently, I've Been Handling Pumpkins Wrong for 56 Years

At 56 years old, I discovered there's a right way and a wrong way to pick up a pumpkin.

Who knew?

Apparently, everyone but me.

It was a sunny fall Sunday when we met our grandchildren at the pumpkin patch for our annual Halloween pumpkin adventure. The mission was simple. Find the perfect pumpkins, take them home, carve them, and enjoy a little family time.

Naturally, there was chaos.

Children were inspecting pumpkins, opinions were being offered, and the definition of “perfect” seemed to change every few minutes.

I was bent over examining a promising candidate when I heard an older woman correcting someone nearby. I assumed she was talking to one of the children. Then I felt a hand on my arm. Apparently, she was talking to me.

I stood upright and looked squarely at her as she explained that I shouldn't pick up a pumpkin by its stem.

Huh.

Fifty-six years on this earth, and not once had I been reprimanded for improper pumpkin handling. I stood there for a moment, processing this unexpected development. I wasn't angry. Not even irritated. Mostly, I was surprised that I'd managed to get this far in life without someone informing me of the rules.

She was protecting her merchandise, and I understood that. I agreed that if I broke a pumpkin, I'd certainly pay for it. Then I smiled and promptly transferred all pumpkin-handling responsibilities to my husband.

Problem solved.

Eventually, the perfect pumpkins were selected, purchased, and carefully loaded into the car. And when I say carefully, I mean we somehow ended up with a grandchild buckled into the back seat between two enormous pumpkins.

Our precious cargo was secured.

We headed home.

The plan was to carve the pumpkins, make a little mess, and enjoy the afternoon. We accomplished one of those things immediately. Once everyone was settled, we gathered our supplies and began the traditional pumpkin-carving process.

First, remove the top. Simple enough. Until we opened one of the pumpkins. Good grief. The smell was unbelievable. I'm not talking about that familiar earthy smell of fresh pumpkin. I'm talking about the kind of smell that makes you reconsider your decision to breathe. The inside was rotting.

Which was particularly strange because, from the outside, the pumpkin looked perfectly fine. The exterior structure was intact. But there were rotten spots, and the smell suggested something had gone terribly wrong in the pumpkin's personal life.

This wasn't just any pumpkin. It belonged to our six-year-old grandson. His excitement began to fade as he realized his carefully selected Halloween masterpiece might not survive long enough to become a jack-o'-lantern.

He was disappointed. Then a little more disappointed. And with every passing minute, it became increasingly clear that we had a pumpkin emergency on our hands. My daughter and I went to work. We scraped. We scooped. We attempted to remove the offending areas without destroying the pumpkin entirely. We were determined to save it.

Unfortunately, determination does very little to improve the smell of a rotting pumpkin. Then Papa stepped in. Thank goodness. Having already been promoted to Chief Pumpkin Handler at the patch, he was now assuming responsibility for emergency pumpkin restoration. I was more than happy to surrender the position.

While Papa cleaned, scraped, and scrubbed the unfortunate vegetable, we distracted our grandson with the Halloween decorations outside. There were things to look at, decorations to admire, and, most importantly, something to occupy a six-year-old while his grandfather performed emergency pumpkin surgery.

Every so often, I wondered how we'd managed to turn a perfectly ordinary afternoon into a rescue operation. We'd gone out to buy pumpkins. Not rehabilitate them. But eventually, Papa emerged victorious. The pumpkin was cleaned out, the offending areas removed, and the carving could begin.

Our grandson was back in business.

Before long, there were pumpkin guts, carving tools, and the usual assortment of Halloween debris scattered around. The children were busy creating their masterpieces, the adults were helping where needed, and the afternoon had returned to something resembling the original plan. Well, close enough.

When everything was finished, our six-year-old carried his rescued pumpkin outside and proudly placed it on the front porch. He stood beside it, smiling for a picture. And there it was. His masterpiece.

The pumpkin didn't last. It was already rotting when we opened it, and despite Papa's heroic efforts, it has since met its inevitable fate.

But I've been thinking about that afternoon. All those adults working together to save something we knew wouldn't last very long anyway. We could have thrown it away. It certainly would have been easier. Instead, we scraped, scrubbed, scooped, and did whatever we could to give that pumpkin a few more hours.

Watching our grandson proudly pose beside it, I realized we'd accomplished exactly what we'd set out to do. He got his experience. He got to carve his pumpkin.

Someday, he probably won't remember the smell, the disappointment, or the rescue operation happening while he admired the Halloween decorations. He'll remember choosing his pumpkin, carving it, and proudly displaying it on the porch. The rest of us will laugh and remember those moments for a different reason.

The pumpkin is already gone.

But he got his afternoon.

Apparently, after 56 years, I’m not qualified to pick up a pumpkin, let alone perform emergency surgery on one.

Fortunately, I married someone who is.