When you pull onto the dirt road leading up to the farm, it’s inevitable that you scare up a flock of black birds hiding in the bushes and they scatter to the wind, swooshing in front of your car. Landing on the phone lines in the distance. The dust gathers behind you. And the tires crunch the gravel. And when you step out, the air smells like fall.
We’ve been coming to this patch for well over a decade. We found it when it was just starting out. Small. No one else came here. And now, over the years it has grown into something bigger. A parking lot has been made to accommodate all the weekend patch pickers. The patch has grown. The variety has changed. It used to take me hours to find a white pumpkin in years past, and now I got to choose from what seemed like thousands.
Our tradition has been to go on a weeknight, and have the patch to ourselves. To be able to take our time and not have to fight over space to pet the pig . We get to wander as the sun gets lower with the view of the rockies in the distance. We wander through the vines and weeds (because the farm owners don’t believe in insecticides) finding the best ones we can. We all have our favorite shapes and colors. Long and tall. Round and grooved. White.
My big Dino Dude claims it’s his favorite day of the year. Even better than Christmas (aside from all the gifts.)
Because it’s his favorite month of his favorite season.
And even though he started junior high this year. Is on the verge of being a teenager… the pumpkin patch is one of his favorite places on earth. I hope that never, ever changes.
