So this past weekend, I made my annual apple-picking journey to the Annapolis Valley. Typically, this is also a pumpkin-picking journey. An occasion to forage through a local pumpkin patch. In search of two or three prize specimens. Potential jack-o-lanterns.
But not this year.
No, this year, I traveled straight past the pumpkin patch. Stopping only briefly to gaze enviously at their impressive size and number.
But not this year.
No, this year, I traveled straight past the pumpkin patch. Stopping only briefly to gaze enviously at their impressive size and number.
I walked past the bins of pre-picked pumpkins.
Past the pumpkin wall.
Past the collections of assorted squash.
This year, I returned home pumpkin-less.
Because this year I will be carving my own pumpkins. Small though they may be. Pumpkins lovingly cultivated in the clearly inadequate soil of my front yard. Because with each passing day, the survival of at least a few of them seems assured, despite the recent unexpected death of one of the larger ones. Two more little pumpkins will likely be ready for harvest this week. They remain small but sincere. Small but sincere . . .