MUSINGS AT THE PUMPKIN PATCH

I seem to have arrived at a new place. I came by way of a hay wagon and ended up in a pumpkin patch.

It wasn’t easy getting here. I had trouble getting on and off the wagon, but when I needed help, hands were there. I took them gratefully.

I think of all the hands I have known….my mother’s small soft hand; my dad’s strong one; my husband’s hand, capable and sure, my sons’ -- young and firm, my granddaughter’s angel’s touch. I have known strangers’ hands as well. All of them have been kind. I am lucky.

Sometimes the wagon ride was bumpy and I had to hang on; other times, it was wonderful and I laughed with joy.

I descended a metal ladder placed beside the wagon. In the distance, the west hills were silhouetted against the sky, a soft shadow of blue. The fields around me stretched far and wide vibrant with orange pumpkins and strewn hay. Harvest time. In the spring new buds peeked out of the soil, in the summer vines reached out and flowers bloomed; now it is pumpkin time.

Like the pumpkin, my cycle, too, is almost done. Will some child race to wrap her arms around me? I am here for the taking. Open me up. I have seeds to share. Time has carved my face, but it can do with painting. Do as you wish. I am yours. We do not have a lot of time you and I. In days or years, my flesh will rot. Not a pretty sight. Pumpkins don’t last forever. But while I am here, I hope to make you smile and give you a taste for that which is sweet.