Harry’s Harvest

 I drove down Hwy 508 the other day, past Harry’s old gray house near the blinking four-way stop light.

The sun was coming warm through the windows of the car. The sky was the deep shade of blue that only seems to exist this time of year, its color polished by the change of seasons. Fallen leaves crunched under my tires and swirled up in eddies as I passed.

I looked to see if the pumpkins had been harvested yet, lined up in orderly groups on Harry’s former front porch, the Honor Can with its bills and coins, standing at attention, ever ready to supply the change needed for your selections.

There they all were, lined up and ready to go.  Tall skinny pumpkins stood with rounded shoulders among more rotund pumpkins of all sizes, their blank orange faces an invitation to carve, to create, to bring life to all the emotions of the season.



Gourds to go, just leave your payment in the blue honor can.

The lovely deep red of the Cinderella pumpkins—perfect for pies—shone brightly from their usual place at the side of the house, waiting patiently for people to come and turn them into something magical. They were all nuzzled up next to white pumpkins—one can’t help but imagine them as ghosts—and multi-varieties of gourds for fall decorating.

Sometimes, there are even a few hopeful zucchini hanging out, just in case not everyone has had their fill of them—good luck with that, zucchini!--I am in the mood for spicy Pumpkin Bread with cranberries, or a Pumpkin Roll,  oozey  with cream cheese goodness. I have a new recipe for Pumpkin Dinner Rolls that I can’t wait to try, and I gave the zucchini a wide berth as I made my selections.

Harry is gone now, gone to his reward, gone to that Great Garden in the sky. His daughter still carries on the planting and the harvesting in his honor, and I feel blessed to share in it.