This weekend we did two of my favorite things: get apples and pumpkins. These activities are quintessential fall for me. I grew up in NY, which I was surprised to learn in grade school was NOT part of New England. It always seemed like New England to me- the beautiful colors in the fall, cold, snowy winters. But New York is actually part of the 'Mid-Atlantic' states. From my hometown of Berlin, you can be in Vermont or Massachusetts in 15 minutes. (Or, for the real adventurous, you can climb the mountain on the eastern side of the town and be in Massachusetts). So I still consider that I grew up in New England.
Fall is a wonderful time in New England. The thick lush forests change from many shades of green to orange, yellow, red, and purple. To me, there is nothing lovelier than seeing the green valley gradually give way to the explosion of color on the hills and mountains. Inspiration surrounds you. It is a time of preparation. You grab your fall coat, knowing soon you will need the winter one. While you are doing this, you check to see if last year's boots still fit, and make sure you can locate at least one complete pair of gloves. The lawn mower gets put away, and the snow blower gets moved to the front of the shed. You dread the six months of winter that are coming, but the glory of the fall makes the rest of it worthwhile.
Every September, we would go to Southern Vermont Orchards and buy apples. I remember being a small child and going into the orchard with mom to pick apples. Somewhere along the way, liability laws changed and many orchards stopped allowing the public to pick apples. So going to get apples consisted of going to the big red barn, and walking through the aisles of baskets filled with apples. We always picked apples for pies and applesauce, and apples for eating. As soon as you walked into the barn, you were met with the aroma of warm cider donuts. The donuts were as important as the apples themselves. And of course, we had to get a jug of cider. Then we went home and started peeling and cutting apples, preparing them for pies and applesauce. Mom taught us how to freeze the unbaked pies, and then we would have fresh apple pie all winter long.
Getting pumpkins was more of an adventure. Over the years, there were a couple different farms we went to for pumpkins. All of the places had pumpkins they had already picked and put near the farm stand. But these places also offered you the chance to go into the pumpkin patch. For a flat rate, say $5, you could go into the pumpkin patch, wander around the dead vines, and choose your perfect pumpkin. Or pumpkins, because it was 'what you could carry'. My sister would pick up a couple of decent sized pumpkins, preferring to carry multiple pumpkins for her $5. I took the opposite approach. I wanted the biggest, most perfect pumpkin I could find.
My requirements for the perfect pumpkin have not changed, even though I am now in my mid-thirties. I want a pumpkin that is orange, not yellowy-orange, and certainly no green. I want a round pumpkin, not oblong. I want a fat pumpkin, not a tall one. I prefer it not to have any flat spots or bad sides (which is hard to come by). And I want it to be BIG! If I have trouble carrying it, then it is the right size.
I would scour the pumpkin patch, looking for the best one. I would walk the entire field, putting those that were possibilities aside so I could compare them. My sister was in and out of the pumpkin patch and off to the snack bar long before I ever finished. Mom would pull the station wagon to the edge of the patch, and sit and wait for me. It became a bit of a family joke. But I take my pumpkin hunt very seriously! When I finally found the perfect pumpkin, I would carry it out to the car. Carrying it usually meant I walked a few feet, then put it down and rested. Once I got to the edge of the patch, Mom would come over and help me and put it in the car. When we got home, Dad would get it out. I always liked it when they weighed my pumpkin, so I could see how well I had done. I don't remember what my largest one ever was though. Maybe 30 or 40 lbs.
When I was in college, I missed the pumpkin ritual. After I moved to Ohio, I found a farm that offers rides to the pumpkin patch, and then you can wander around and choose the pumpkin you want. Erich would go with me, and he would graciously carry my pumpkins for me. We were usually the only ones not doing this for a child. After I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, we stopped going to that farm. Partly because it was over an hour away, which was a long way to drive for a pumpkin, and partly because bouncing around in hay wagons does not feel very good when you have Fibro. So we've been going to nearby farm stands, and just choosing from the pumpkins they have set out. But some things do not change. I still go up and down the rows carefully searching for the perfect pumpkin. I feel like a kid, and sometimes I think I have more fun than the kids do. When I find THE one, I am filled with joy. It is a fun time, something I look forward to. As I stumble to the car with my giant pumpkin, I am happy. I smile as I hold the pumpkin. The pumpkin sits on our front step, and every time I pull in the driveway, I can see it. I am transported back to the happy falls of my childhood.
This year's pumpkin is beautiful-perfectly round and orange and not a bad side. The cashier at the farm stand was even impressed. It's small compared to some pumpkins I've had, nearly 24 pounds. Yet I didn't see any bigger all weekend. I am happy. Sometimes, it's the simple pleasures that make life so wonderful.
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