Sun Nov 22 2009
All right, it's time to kick some fannies and take names. Someone snatched a pumpkin off the front step. At least they had the decency not to squash it right then and right here. Squash -- oops -- I made a pumpkin pun. It was only one of millions of other rotund vegetables available at stores, markets and farm stands, but it was special to me.
I have a tendency to get too emotionally attached to my winter squashes. This slightly skewed affection, stems ... ahem ... pardon me, another pun, from a childhood incident.
Imagine sparkly swirls of orange, green and black as we travel back ... wa-a-a-ay back ... to another October. It was a misty fall morning. The bus had just arrived at the junior high and as I trudged down the steps, a spot of brightness, a small sun in the cold gloom caught my eye. In the street gutter lay a pumpkin. It appeared to be a nab-and-smash survivor. With just a hairline crack on its round, orange bottom, it was in very good shape. But, it looked so forlorn and forgotten, so perilously close to the rear bus wheels. It would have been cruel to leave it there with only the company of sodden leaves and the sad remains of companions that hadn't been so lucky during the recent violence.
My best friend pretended not to know me, yet I was still able to coerce her into carrying my books so I could rescue Pumpkin. Even with her reluctant assistance, it wasn't easy. I squatted and tried to collect my autumnal find. Picking up anything -- a pencil, a piece of paper -- was a rather problematical maneuver, because that far back in antiquity, girls were not allowed to wear pants or jeans to school. Any attempt to lower oneself toward the ground while wearing an A-line skirt required grace and coordination that I did not possess. I still don't.
Pumpkin was slippery, unwieldy and heavy. I managed to muscle him up to the second floor and with a minimal amount of scraping, stashed into my locker.
The trip home was similarly difficult, only in reverse. He had dried off a little during the day, so once pried from the locker, was a little easier to transport.
The final gauntlet was getting past the bus driver. He was recognized by the school system's bus-riding population as the crankiest driver. It was like getting a ride with Don Rickles on his worst day. As I struggled up the steep steps with Pumpkin, the only reaction to disrupt the driver's usual scowl was a single lifted brow. I scuttled past as quickly as I was able with my hefty pal.
My human friend, once again persuaded to haul my school gear, followed at a safely anonymous distance. She casually sat down beside me, but perched on the edge of the seat and studied the horizon, ready to deny any knowledge or relationship with the pumpkin girl. I didn't blame her.
In the deep seas of our adolescent social hierarchy, it was understood that in order to save face, if necessary, one would immediately jump the friend ship. It was rare, but it happened occasionally. We forgave each other after a day or two of evil stares and fuming silence. Although I knew carting that pumpkin around was really a dangerous mission, a surefire strategy to invite ridicule and taunting, I still felt compelled to champion him in his abandonment. But, I didn't expect my friend to suffer ostracism on account of an orphan pumpkin.
Hasn't there been some sort of study done about rescuers becoming emotionally attached to those they rescue? Maybe some early maternal tendencies were beginning to develop. Once safely home, any talk of laying a knife to his fine pumpkin-ness was squelched. Pumpkin was proudly and prominently displayed on the porch. Perhaps too prominent, as he met his fate in the night. He would have wanted me to continue putting pumpkins on doorsteps and porches. And so I do.
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