JOY ALONG THE WAY: PUTTERIN' IN THE PUMPKIN PATCH

All through the morning rituals--coffee, toast, newspaper--there was a repetitive snatch of song in the back room of my mind that kept saying, "I'm going to the pumpkin patch today."

I set my time for departure by the clock, not by the hour or minute hands, but by the time the sun's finger, poking through the east window, would fall upon the pumpkin. Needs explaining? It is a clock with a hand-embroidered face. At one place on it there is a satin-stitched pumpkin.

By the time I put on a sweat shirt, old slacks and walking shoes the sun was on the pumpkin and, "I'm going to the pumpkin patch," was still on the back roads of my mind. So it is that such a seemingly little trip can jab my sense of joy.

It was a dazzling day, bluest of blue skies, heady harvest aroma. The huge, still green pumpkin leaves were trying to hide their big orange jewels, such jewels suitable for gemstones in Mrs. Paul Bunyan's costume jewelry. But here and there some vines, having "hogged" the fertilizer, had produced pumpkins that were showing like half-moons above the greenery.

I took the pathways where the tractors had traversed, not wishing to step on the still live vines and, walking a short way into the patch, gingerly lifted the leaves where their outrageously big secrets were being betrayed. The sides of the potential pies or jack-o'-lanterns had recently been cleansed by rain and they shone in the sunshine as if the sun itself had boiled over and dripped into this particular place on the planet.

I cannot be content with just looking, wide-eyed, at these big beautiful fruits. Yes, the dictionary calls them fruits. The dictionary also says "only edible when cooked. See Pekw." So I looked up Pekw in the appendix and under the Greek definition it defines pekw as "to cook." I don't like that. Pekwing a pumpkin! Despite the alliteration it doesn't sound as good as "cut into cubes and boil."

To re-connect with my sensory enjoyment, I'm not satisfied with just looking at the orange globes, I must run my hands over them, feel the satiny smooth texture, give them a loving pat and whisper, "You did good this year."

I even considered sitting on one big one, choosing it, in its isolation, over a velvet chair as would Thoreau. What if I squashed it? Then I argued with myself, "Oh, I'm not that heavy," so, daringly, I sat on one, being careful not to disturb its umbilical cord. From that nearer-to-the-ground viewpoint I could see some little gourds ripening in amongst the pumpkins and again was awed by the precise markings as if hand painted. Why does the green come halfway up the gourd and then so suddenly and evenly turn to yellow? Answer me that, you scientists. And throw in why there are precise little white stripes up the bottom green half.

Do intense thoughts make one heavier? I was still wondering about the squashing potential. But because the pumpkin didn't seem to be cracking, I sat on, enjoying the cricket song, the blue of the wild morning glories, or bind weed, intertwined. The bluish-white blossoms on the jimson weeds at the field's edge seemed to be trumpeting some message to the bull nettles at their feet. I remember this combination of weeds growing at the edges of our barn lot. Is that where they grow best? And get into barnyard fertilizer that might have been used on pumpkin-patch ground?

I watched a bird feasting on some trembling tall weed stems whose heads had gone to seed, to see some butterflies butterflying south and eye-finding some squash that were also ripening under the still, green canopy.

Back home, I sat in the velvet recliner, it being more comfortable now that even glow had come. A mug of hot-mulled cider was at hand and the song in the back of my mind had changed to, "How wonderful the bounty of nature." The one lone refrain seemed to be punctuated by a big orange period.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.