Trending
"I've got some volunteers to help when we bring in pumpkins Saturday," Miss T told me. There would be two children each from the Forests and the Mulroons, families acquainted through church. Three girls and one boy, all under 10 years of age, had visited the farm, but never as workers.
"They begged to come," Miss T said.
"Good," I said. "We can always use the help."
The place we were to pick was Seed's new field. Last year I told Seed and Miss T that I wanted to plow up a new field near their house because the old one there was played out. Thanks to a warm July and August with regular rain, pumpkin vines on this field were exceptionally thick and lush. The insect pests, weeds and deer which did so much damage to our other fields had seemed to not yet find it. I hoped for a good yield, but you never know until you get in there. We had already harvested the other fields, and the crop was sparse. We planted them earlier; I think that 12-day drought in early June affected them more.
I avoid walking a growing pumpkin field too much because you can't help stepping on the vines, but my tentative looks into Seed's new field were promising. That was good news for our grandsons, the official proprietors, because they get all the money from Worshrag's Pumpkin Patch.
Our seasonal business began 25 years ago when our youngest son was only 8, selling pumpkins out of our 1849 barn on the four weekends leading up to Halloween. After Worshrag went away to college (financed partly by pumpkin money), Honey and I kept the enterprise going for awhile mainly because it was fun for me, growing pumpkins and taking people on tractor rides. Honey liked having friends and neighbors drop by to visit while they bought their fall decorations.
Finally we let it lapse for two years, but then the two older grandsons got the money gleam in their eyes and the pumpkin patch was reborn.
Rufus is the only grandson not involved now. A college freshman, he aged out of the partnership a couple of years ago.
This year, Lamppost Head, 12, and The 747, age 10, joined their cousins Bob, who just turned 16, and The Favorite, 11, as owners, meaning they will split the profits and the work four ways. There's plenty of work. Except for straw, we grow everything we sell: gourds, Indian corn, broomcorn cornstalks, squash and pumpkins in many shapes, sizes and colors.
The offer of additional child labor was welcome, with the only payment a free pumpkin and the fun of it all.
Seed went down the rows, snipping ripe pumpkins to leave stems as long as possible. Our little squad of worker ants followed, picking them up and loading the trailer behind our 1953 Farmall tractor.
"Look! I found a baby pumpkin!" one of the girls exclaimed.
"I need some help here," said the boy, who was trying to carry too many.
Some, not all, wore gloves to save their tender hands from the prickles on the stems. The Favorite's little fingers dug on one girl's hand to remove an almost invisible little spine.
With the trailer loaded, the children found spaces for their little butts for the ride to the barn, and then the ants swarmed again, carrying pumpkins inside, where they later would be weighed, marked and placed in piles by size.
Seven trailer loads and two and a half hours later, the crop from the new field was in, with pumpkins larger and more numerous than I expected. The grandsons, as veteran pumpkin pickers, got to show our young volunteers how it's done. The newbies had proven themselves good workers, having a great time into the bargain.
Everyone was tired, but it was a good tired, the aching backs and dragging steps easier to shrug off because of laughter shared and a job well done.