Hickory’s Pumpkin Predicament

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE

Stories, Memories, and Good-Natured Nonsense with Hickory Pinenut

“Hickory’s Pumpkin Predicament“

Hickory Pinenut has spent many years collecting stories, memories, local legends, and the occasional tall tale.

Whether entirely true, mostly true, or improved slightly through repeated telling, his stories celebrate the characters, humor, and everyday adventures that make Honey Hill Country such an interesting place to live.

I went out to the pumpkin patch intending to purchase one pumpkin.

That detail deserves mentioning early.

There were pumpkins scattered across the field, pumpkins stacked beside the wagon, and pumpkins arranged around a sign announcing the Best Jack-o’-lantern Contest. Beyond the fence, a fiddle was playing something lively enough to make a fellow forget he had knees.

Ray Jay’s Lunch Wagon stood near the refreshment tables. The smell coming from that direction suggested that choosing a pumpkin might require lunch.

Lillian Harper was there talking with Patch, who grew the pumpkins and knew considerably more about them than I had imagined there was to know.

“What sort are you looking for?” he asked.

“A winning sort.”

“That narrows it down some.”

“I want one with character.”

Patch glanced at Lillian.

She studied a pumpkin near my feet.

“This one looks as though it has an opinion.”

“Then we ought to get along.”

It was broad, firm, and sufficiently flat underneath to stand without assistance. I turned it around, considered where its face ought to go, and carried it home.

By late morning, I had cut a lid and cleaned out the inside. Seeds went into one pan, the stringy parts into another, and a respectable amount of both went onto my sleeve.

I drew two eyes and a nose. The mouth required thought.

A jack-o’-lantern’s mouth can make the difference between a distinguished expression and something that appears to have swallowed a wasp.

I decided to consider the matter over lunch.

The pumpkin stayed on the porch worktable. I left its lid slightly crooked so the inside could dry.

When I returned, the lid had been straightened.

That was my first indication that circumstances had changed.

The second was a small voice calling from within.

“Mind the doorstep, children.”

I bent down.

A mouse stood at the opening, holding a curled leaf. Behind her, another mouse was pushing a bundle of dry grass against the inside wall. Three young ones were arranging smaller leaves in a row.

A fourth had climbed onto the rim and was looking out at the countryside.

There was already something resembling a bed.

I had been gone less than an hour.

“Well,” I said.

The mother mouse looked up.

“Oh, good afternoon. We hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

“I was planning to carve that.”

“Yes. We noticed the pencil marks.”

Her husband came forward and examined the face I had drawn.

“Plenty of windows,” he said. “That’ll be pleasant.”

One of the youngsters called from the back.

“Mother, where shall we put this?”

“Beside your sister’s bed. Leave room for the baby.”

I looked at the pumpkin.

Then I looked at the little row of leaves.

There are arguments a man can make under such circumstances. I could not seem to locate one.

“Gets cool on this porch at night,” I said.

“We brought extra bedding.”

“Yes. I see you have.”

I moved the pumpkin into a sheltered corner, where the wind would trouble it less, and went back to the patch.

Lillian was still there.

“Finished already?” she asked.

“Had a change of plans.”

Patch helped me choose another pumpkin.

This one was taller, with a stem bent over like a handle. It had an excellent face on one side, once a fellow knew where to look.

“What happened to the first?” Patch asked.

“Occupied.”

He waited.

“Family moved in.”

Lillian lowered her notebook.

“Inside the pumpkin?”

“They seem pleased with it.”

Patch nodded slowly.

“Well, they’re sound pumpkins.”

I took the second one home.

This time I worked beneath the shade tree beside the porch. I cut the lid, scooped out the inside, and finished both eyes before discovering that my smaller knife was in the kitchen.

I went to fetch it.

Then I remembered the washing I had left hanging out.

Then a neighbor stopped at the gate with a question.

By the time I returned, my pumpkin had attracted company.

A deer was nibbling one of the pieces I had cut away. Two squirrels were sorting seeds on the table. A possum had found a comfortable position beside the pan, and a raccoon was reaching through an eyehole with the concentration of a clockmaker.

The mice were there, too.

All of them.

I recognized the youngster who had been admiring the view from his new doorstep. He was sitting on a pumpkin shaving, eating with both paws.

“You folks again?”

His mother swallowed before answering.

“We live just around the corner.”

She pointed toward the porch.

The raccoon withdrew his paw.

“Did you want this piece?”

It had been part of the nose.

“Yes,” I said. “At one time.”

He looked at it, then at the pumpkin.

“I can put it back.”

“No. I doubt that would improve matters.”

A squirrel examined the remaining face.

“It still has one good eye.”

“It had two when I went inside.”

Nobody disputed that.

The deer lifted her head, chewing thoughtfully.

I put my knife down.

“Well, enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you,” said the possum.

He had apparently been waiting for that.

On my third visit, Patch saw me coming and walked toward the pumpkins.

Lillian followed.

Neither spoke immediately.

I appreciated their restraint.

Finally, she asked, “Another change of plans?”

“I have been providing housing and refreshments.”

“And the contest?”

“Still hoping to enter.”

Patch pointed out a handsome pumpkin beside the wagon.

“That one ought to do.”

“It ought,” I agreed. “Now find me another.”

“Two?”

“Two.”

He looked from me to Lillian.

I could see that she was enjoying her work considerably.

When I reached home, I carried one pumpkin to my worktable.

The other I set beneath the tree, close to the little company still gathered there. I cut an opening in its side, loosened the lid, and laid a few pieces of pumpkin beside it.

“Here,” I said. “Whoever needs a home or a snack this afternoon, this one’s yours.”

The mouse mother came over first.

“Oh, that’s thoughtful.”

“Bring your neighbors.”

“We have.”

“Yes,” I said. “I noticed.”

Then I went back to the porch and sat down with my own pumpkin.

For a while, all I heard was the scrape of my knife, the rustling of leaves, and comfortable conversation beneath the tree.

I gave my jack-o’-lantern two eyes, a sound nose, and a broad, cheerful mouth.

It looked pleased with the afternoon.

By then, so was I.