Humor

ADVENTURE IN THE PUMPKIN PATCH

We had begun our journey to Young's Farm in Dewey to attend the annual pumpkin festival, but our six-year-old grandson, Brian Shuff, had no idea what to expect. My wife, Gail, and I grew up in Indiana and had been immersed in gardens and farms from the very beginning. Though Brian is a native Arizonan, he's a city boy. He thought pumpkins came from the grocery store. So all he knew as we set out toward Dewey, a small farming area near Prescott about an hour and a half's drive north of Phoenix, is that we were going to hunt pumpkins. I can only imagine what Brian thought that meant. No matter. On the trip up, we had plen-ty of time to fill him in. So I thought I'd start by setting him straight on pumpkins. "Brian," I asked, "do you know the difference between good pumpkins and mean pumpkins?" Immediately I got his full attention. Mean pumpkins! The concept was so new to him that he was having trouble comprehending. I could tell by the way his eyes widened, however, that he was most interested, not only in finding out about these mean critters but also in what he was going to be getting into at Dewey. "What's a mean pumpkin?" he asked. "Well, now, we'd better be very clear on that," I answered, "because we're probably going to run into a bunch of them at Dewey." Brian looked at me, wide-eyed. "You see, pumpkins are like people. There are good people and mean people. Deep down inside, all people are good, really. It's just that some have acted mean for so long it has become a habit with them. "But pumpkins. That's a different story. Some are good. And some are just plain evil. No one knows exactly how they got that way. "Some people think the mean ones have an allergy to the color orange. Some think they turn nasty because they grow up attached to prickly vines that stick them when they move." "I personally think some of them are driven over the edge because they know that the best thing they can become is a pumpkin pie. And you know how squishy and disgusting a pumpkin pie is, although there are some people good people who think it's a delicacy. "But it's not like a pumpkin can become President, or a schoolteacher, or even a doorknob, for that matter." "Anyway, no one knows why they turn mean. We only know for sure that some of them do." Brian seemed fascinated. And, actually, I was beginning to get into the story myself. "The main problem we'll have today," I continued, "is trying to tell the difference between the good and the mean pumpkirs. We sure don't want to bring any mean ones home."

The Dewey festival is an experience all its own

"Why not, Grandpa?" Brian asked. "We could keep them in a box."

"Oh, no, no," I said. "Pumpkins are not made for boxes. They're made to be jack-o'-lanterns. Halloween is coming, and we'll need a jack-o'-lantern or two. Trouble is mean pumpkins don't make good jack-o'-lanterns. You need a smile face on a jack-o'-lantern, and mean pumpkins won't smile. They just frown and scowl.

"Besides that, mean pumpkins are full of stringy guts, and when you try to clean them out they keep grabbing your hand and spitting seeds in your eye.

"No, we better make sure all we get is good pumpkins."

"How do we do that, Grandpa?" Brian asked.

"Well, we treat them just like people. You know how some people can look very nice but really be very nasty? Pumpkins can be the same way. Some look great, but when you turn your back they can be very mean.

"So we can't judge them by their appearances. We'll have to judge them by their actions. If they're nice to us, they must be good. If they're nasty to us, they must be mean.

"But how will we know if they're nice or nasty to us?" Brian wanted to know.

"You'll see when we get there," I assured him. "You'll know."

And so on we went up Interstate 17 to the turnoff to Dewey, and then we followed the signs to Young's Farm.

We arrived at midmorning on a gorgeous autumn day clear skies, tempertatures in the 80s and already there was a large crowd in the pumpkin patch.

We were eager to start, and so boldly off we went into the field, looking for good pumpkins. We weren't 10 feet into the patch when one of the scratchy green vines reached out and tripped Brian.

Splat. He fell face down between two of the large gourds, his palms grinding along the prickly vines. In an instant he was flat on his stomach.

Tears started to form in his eyes, but I yelled with all the urgency I could muster: "Quick, get up! These are mean pumpkirs! Let's get out of here!"

In a flash, Brian was on his feet and on the run, leaping vines and seeking safer ground. Gail and I were right behind him. In seconds we were between planted rows out of the reach of the evil pumpkin vines.

"Are you okay?" I asked Brian, examining his hands.

"Yes," he said as if the pain of the fall had long been forgotten. "Were those really mean pumpkins?"

"They knocked you down," I said.

"How much meaner can they get?"

So from then on, we went cautiously through the pumpkin patch. There were so many pumpkins it would take hours to see them all. Hundreds were in the fields. Some were round. Some were skinny. Some were huge. Some were small. Most were orange, but some were still greenish. And some were two-tone: orange on top and green on the bottom.Hundreds of other pumpkins had been harvested by the farm managers and were grouped here and there, so the faint of heart could pick out a pumpkin or two

WHEN YOU GO

The Pumpkin Festival takes place in Dewey each weekend in October from 9:00 Α.Μ. to 5:00 Ρ.Μ. A big crafts fair adds to the fun Friday through Monday, October 9 to 12. If you plan to pick pumpkins, you won't need shears, but gloves are a good idea. Admission to the festival is free.

Getting there: From Phoenix take Interstate 17 north to the Cordes Junction exit, State Route 69; go 22 miles northwest to Dewey; turn right (east) at the intersection of 69 and State 169; then drive one-quarter mile to the farm entrance. Total distance: about 90 miles.

For more information, call Young's Farm Store at (602) 632-7272.

without risking a misadventure in the patch.

There were boys with wheelbarrows who took your pumpkins to the car for you. There was a stand that sold sweet corn on the cob. Smothered in steamy butter, it was so good.

It didn't take Brian long to become a veteran pumpkin pickerouter. And it didn't take him long to learn how to move through a pumpkin patch without getting entangled in pumpkin vines.

In all, he picked out five of the gourds, including a misshapen green and orange job. It had the look more of a peanut than a pumpkin. Not to worry about him judging things by appearances.

The pumpkin adventure was winding down as we loaded them into the trunk of the car. But another adventure was just beginning.

From the pumpkin patch you could board a tractor-drawn hay wagon and be pulled along several blocks to a little country bazaar in the area of the farm store.

Brian had never been on a hay wagon (actually this was just a wagon with three rows of hay bales to sit on), and he didn't look too eager to get on this one.

And he knew for sure he didn't want to sit on the hay bales on the edges of the wagon despite my urging. He chose to sit on a bale in the center.

But soon he began to enjoy the ride, and, on the way back, he plopped down on an outside bale.

At the festival's bazaar there were dozens of craft booths, a petting zoo, and some games for kids. You also could go into the barn and watch apple cider being made, or you could shop in the farm store, which is open year-round.

We shopped and gawked like everyone else. But one booth caught our eye. It was the one that sold aluminum butterflies and ladybugs. They came with magnets so you could attach them to plants.

We loaded up, buying butterflies of all sizes and handfuls of tiny ladybugs.

Now, when I see those ladybugs on the leaves of a plant in my office, it reminds me of pumpkin patches, country bazaars, and a great outing with Brian and his grandma.