We have pumpkins here on the farm. They are truly beautiful this year. As my husband was surveying the fruit of his labor there on our front lawn, I reminded him of the very first year we sold pumpkins. I remember it well, he did not recall it.
It was 2001 I was pregnant for S2, that long ago. It was the first time Hubby had planted pumpkins and they had done phenomenally, a sea of orange on our front lawn.
It was also the first time Hubby had ever worked nights. Not a big deal, I didn’t mind having the whole bed to myself. But on this night, it was sheer panic.
To understand the story, you must realize that our house sits on little hill off the road. At the time, we had a HUGE maple tree right smack dab in front of the house. It has since had to be cut down and I cried but that is another story. Anyhow, our bedroom window looks right out toward the road. And the sea of pumpkins.
It was October 31st, Halloween night. S1 was tucked into his John Deere bedding and I was nestled in the big bed alone. I noticed a truck moving slowly down the road, it turned around and headed back by our house ever so slowly.
Hubby then got a panicked call from me. “I think a truck is stalking our house” I whispered panicked into the phone, because, of course, the evil driver could hear me calling Hub, I was sure.
“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked, “They are probably just after all the left over pumpkins.” “They can’t take our pumpkins!” I said aloud, completely aghast.
“It’s probably just some punk kids looking for pumpkins to toss. I would have with my buddies.” Buddies looking for a good time or not, I was scared. “Get the gun if you think you need it,” he instructed me.
“I don’t even know how to shoot a gun!” I screeched. Yup, this country girl doesn’t shoot guns. My boys are willing to teach me, I prefer to keep the princess theme going for just me.
Back to the story.
“Well,” he said, “you could always get my paint ball gun. It’s still loaded. Just hide behind the tree and pelt the truck when they stop to load the pumpkins. You won’t stop them but we sure will be able to figure out who the thieves are by the paint splattered truck. Just hide behind the tree and pelt them.”
“What if they come after me?” I asked, trembling.
“Just shoot them with the paint ball gun. Believe me, it hurts. That’ll stop them.”
He had a lot of faith in the paint ball gun, I realized.
But I was still scared and there was nothing he could do for me, driving his big truck in the big cement city half an hour away from me at the least. So I told him I was calling our pastor.
Odd, you may think, but our pastor was an ex-cop. I was sure he would come out to the house and set up a perimeter and he and his boys would set up a mini militia to keep me, S1, unborn S2 and all our beautiful orange pumpkins safe. I knew I would be safe with him watching over us. And after all, I was part of his flock and he had to answer to God for my safety, I was certain.
“Pastor Mark, hope I didn’t wake you….” I began. Then I stumbled out my story. He was silent a moment and then he said something profound that I had not thought of. “What do you plan to do with all those leftover pumpkins?”
I was silent a moment. “Um, feed them to the chickens, I guess.”
“Then I guess if these kids want to pick up your pumpkins to have some fun with them, they are saving you some work.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
I had double checked all the locks. My faithful dear dog, Dixie Lou, wouldn’t let anyone near me, I was sure. And so, I went to sleep.
In the morning, not a single pumpkin was missing. How my Hubby had forgotten this story is beyond me.
And why Pastor Mark didn’t think I was insane is still beyond me!
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