It’s the time of year when pumpkins are everywhere. All sizes, colors and textures are available. When I was kid, all pumpkins were orange. There were no colorful, bumpy designer hybrids.

Picking the perfect pumpkin was easier back then. There was one color, orange. There was one texture, smooth. There was one shape, round. So the choice was limited to the perfect size.

Our home was controlled chaos back then. Mama taught middle school. My sis and I were in the marching band. There would be no pumpkin carving and lighting. A little pumpkin would do.

There was no time or need to peruse a pumpkin patch. We just grabbed our little, round, smooth, orange pumpkin from the produce section of the grocery store.

The perfect pumpkin was about the size of a person’s head. We put it on the mantle for our Halloween decore. It looked great there, so we left it through the fall. Then Thanksgiving arrived. Our band marched in several parades as well as at most football games. We left the pumpkin on the mantle through that holiday.

Some time before the Christmas holidays the perfect pumpkin started slumping. This new pumpkin posture went unnoticed for a while. Eventually its squatting was spotted.
We lifted the poor pumpkin out of its puddle of goo. We cleaned the wooden mantle as best we could, but a round, discolored mark remained.
That mark is still there on the left side of the mantle. That discoloration is a treasured sign of a home that was lived in. A busy family hurrying through the holidays ignored the pumpkin until it demanded attention by rotting.
There are lessons here. I hope one of the Enwood neighbors will pass this story along to the new owner, Zach.
He can hold his little girl up to see the spot and tell her the story of two little girls that grew up in that house long ago.
And the lessons? That is for him to puzzle. To pay attention to time passing. To know that perfection does not last. To enjoy things while they are fresh. To know when its time to make a change. Whatever suits.
FLOWER








