“Pick out which ever one you want.”
I can still hear my father’s voice.
“I want the best one, a really big one!” I’d always say, then we’d sort through the pile of pumpkins at the local supermarket, picking up one, then the next, singling out a few likely candidates, comparing and rejecting until we narrowed it down… the perfect pumpkin. “Are you sure?” he’d ask, “It’s almost as big as you!” or chuckling, he’d point out, “That’s the biggest one here!”
“I’m sure!” I’d reply. “Well, okay then,” he’d smile, and help me lift it into the basket. We’d finish the shopping, and soon we were driving home, our chosen squash belted securely in the backseat. Once we’d get it into the house, we’d admire it and discuss its relative merits – how round it was. the perfect orange color, bigger than last year… maybe the biggest one yet! Then came the carving, on a bed of newspapers laid out on an old round plastic tablecloth. He’d make the first cut around the top, then watch as I’d clean out the slimy strings and seeds, leaving me to trace out the design, sometimes the traditional triangle nose, eyes, and snaggle-tooth smile, sometimes something a little more “free form.” I can still smell the mingled scent of pumpkin guts and black marker. Once the design was perfected, he’d supervise the carving, helping guide my hand when needed to make the cuts for eyes and mouth. Soon it would be revealed, the perfect jack-o’-lantern.
I don’t remember which year we bought our last pumpkin together. I was probably in junior high when I decided I was “too cool” for a jack-o’-lantern. I do remember him asking, “No pumpkin this year?” I was too much a self absorbed teenager to recall if he seemed relieved at not having to help carve it, or disappointed that the tradition had reached its sudden, inevitable end. It wasn’t until much later, and I lived far away in NYC, that I realized how much that tradition meant to me. I imagined one day I’d return home, and take my father to the store, where together we’d select a pumpkin again, but it never came to be.
I guess that’s why whenever October rolls around I find myself at the store, mentally picking out a pumpkin, watching little children and their parents happily selecting the perfect gourd. I smile at their excitement, remembering. Some years I manage to outlast the urge, but mostly I give in, and soon find myself belting a pumpkin safely into the backseat.
Looking at it in the rear view mirror I can feel my eyes begin to well, and I feel my father in the seat beside me. It all comes back, the smells, the fun, the excitement of the season, the security, the love.
It doesn’t have to be the biggest or the best… I already own the perfect pumpkin – it rests securely in my memories and in my heart.