WHERE FOLKS GATHER
Celebrating Community in Honey Hill Country with Lillian Harper
“Pickin’, Grinnin’, and Pumpkins”
Lillian Harper rarely misses an opportunity to attend a gathering, celebration, fair, or special event.
From strawberry festivals and town picnics to holiday celebrations and community traditions, she delights in bringing readers along to experience the people, stories, and memories that bring neighbors together.
The first thing I heard at the Pumpkin Patch Farm was a fiddle.
The second was a small boy explaining that his pumpkin was not too big. His wagon was too little.
His father considered the pumpkin, which occupied nearly the entire wooden wagon, and then the boy, who had both hands on the handle.
“Well,” he said, “let’s see how far we get.”
They got as far as a rut.
Fortunately, there were two of them.
Little wooden wagons stood near the entrance for visitors to borrow, their handles tipped up and ready. Beyond them, pumpkins lay among sprawling vines and broad, tired leaves. Some were round, some tall, some pleasantly crooked, and all apparently required careful consideration before anybody could choose one.
A girl passed me pulling three small pumpkins.
“Those are for my brothers,” she explained.
“And yours?”
She pointed toward the field.
“I haven’t met mine yet.”
I understood. There were a good many introductions still to be made.
Near the gate, a man in a work shirt was helping a family settle their choices into a wagon. Somebody called him Patch, and he answered so promptly that I decided introductions would be easy here.
“Lillian Harper,” I said when his hands were free.
“Glad you came.”
“Are you Patch?”
“While the pumpkins last.”
He smiled and took a loose leaf out of the wagon.
“Most folks call me that.”
“Do you help people choose?”
“When they ask. Mostly I help them carry what they’ve chosen.”
He glanced after a man heading into the field.
“Sometimes those are two very different jobs.”
The man had just spread his arms to indicate the size he wanted.
His wife folded hers.
I left them to their discussion.
Along one side of the yard, a few musicians had gathered on a low platform made of stout boards. Chairs had been carried up for them, and a fiddle case lay open beneath one. A banjo player watched the fiddler’s hand, waiting for the next tune.
Below them, a little girl was dancing with such concentration that she appeared to be doing important work.
Her grandfather kept time with one boot.
There were pickers in the field and pickers on the platform, and plenty of grinning in both places.
Ray Jay’s Lunch Wagon stood nearby, doing a steady business. The smell of something hot and savory reached me before I got close enough to inspect the offerings.
Ray Jay was piling hot roast beef and onions into sturdy split rolls, spooning a little pan gravy over the meat before handing them across. Meat-filled biscuits, fried pies, sweet rolls, and doughnuts offered further reasons to linger, while fresh coffee and tea kept the cups filled.
A fellow beside me accepted his sandwich, leaned over his plate, and took a careful first bite.
“Worth coming for,” he told his wife.
She was already eating hers.
Families settled at tables with their food, while others stood listening to the music with cups warming their hands.
A woman had put her pumpkin on the bench beside her.
Her husband was standing.
I did not ask.
The Best Jack-o’-Lantern Contest had its own table, with room waiting for finished entries. Two children were studying the notice while discussing whether a pumpkin could have spectacles.
One thought it could.
The other thought it ought to.
That was when I saw Hickory Pinenut coming through the gate.
“Looking for a good one?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
He kept walking.
I assumed he meant to show it to me later.
Patch watched him go past.
“Back again, Hickory?”
“Afraid so.”
They went into the field together.
I spent some time watching a family choose between two pumpkins so alike that I could not have told them apart after turning around. Then I stopped beside a grandmother who was letting her smallest granddaughter make the decision.
The child laid one hand on a little pumpkin and looked up.
“This one.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
They were finished.
Some people knew their own minds sooner than others.
By the time I returned to the yard, Hickory was coming out of the field with another pumpkin.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said. “Just a change in arrangements.”
He tucked it securely against himself and headed home.
The fiddler began another tune.
I found something to eat at Ray Jay’s and a place where I could listen. I chose a warm fried apple pie and a cup of tea at Ray Jay’s, then found a place where I could listen. The pastry broke delicately beneath my fork, letting out a little curl of steam and the scent of cinnamon.
Nearby, a boy was showing his mother the face he intended to carve. He demonstrated it several times, pulling his mouth wide and raising his eyebrows.
His little sister laughed so hard that he had to start again.
I was still there when Hickory returned.
This time, I put down my cup.
“Hickory?”
“I know.”
“Another change in arrangements?”
“Something like that.”
Patch met him near the wagons.
“How many today?”
Hickory looked toward the field.
“Two.”
Patch waited.
“One for me,” Hickory said. “And one for whoever else has plans.”
I thought about asking, but Hickory was smiling now, and Patch was already leading the way.
Before I left, I saw them coming back together. Hickory carried a pumpkin under each arm, looking considerably more satisfied than he had on his previous visits.
Near the entrance, the girl with the three small pumpkins was returning her wagon.
“Did you find yours?” I asked.
She pointed to a fourth pumpkin nestled among the others.
It leaned a little to one side.
“That one looks happy,” I said.
“She is,” the girl told me.
Then she took the handle and went to find her family.
Behind us, the fiddles were still playing, Patch was helping somebody lift a pumpkin, and the little wooden wagons kept coming and going.
I had meant to stay only a little while.
I suspect I was not the only one.
Original artwork throughout The Front Porch has been created from my concepts and creative direction with the assistance of AI.
