Harry’s Harvest Tradition

I took a trip down Hwy 508 the other day, past Harry’s old gray house near the blinking four-way stop light, accompanying a friend on her annual quest for the perfect pumpkins.

The sun wasn’t coming warm through the windows the car this year, instead, the sky was overcast and gray, the rain more threat than promise.

I looked to see if the pumpkins had been harvested yet--- on this, the opening weekend of the fall decorating season—and they had; all were 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 to pay for your selections.

There they all were, lined up, piled up, group together by size and purpose. 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 expressions that imagination can conjure. Tiny baby pumpkins remind me that, in another season or two, my grandson will discover for himself the joy of digging out the seeds and stringy, sloppy slime of pumpkin guts.

The lovely deep red of the Cinderella pumpkins—perfect for pies—shine brightly, waiting patiently for people to come and turn them into something magical. Even now my mouth waters with the thought of spicy pumpkin bread, pumpkin roll-up with a smooth, cream cheese filling, pumpkin dip that pairs perfectly with gingersnaps. Oddly enough, I don’t really care much for pumpkin pie. Try not to judge me.

 There were plenty of white pumpkins—one can’t help but imagine them as ghosts—and multi-varieties of gourds for fall decorating.

Harry has been gone for several seasons now, gone to his reward, gone to that Great Garden in the sky. His daughter, along with family and friends, still carries on the planting and the harvesting in his honor, and I feel blessed to have some of Harry’s Harvest adorning my doorstep.