About a week ago, Matt and I went on a quest for a great pumpkin. We had seen a cute little farm house type place out near the dog park that was selling pumpkins. I wanted a white one but couldn’t justify the cost. Matt found a gloriously perfect pumpkin for carving and bought me two small ones for a premeditated paper mache adventure. The three new pumpkins joined the blue one my parents had given to us on our front porch – all waiting anxiously to be decorated for my favorite holiday.
The unspeakable happened last night while our happy family slept upstairs. I doubt any of us heard anything – even Iggy Pup slept soundly. When I groggily came down the stairs this morning, I raised the dining room blinds to see the horror. Our pumpkins – all four of them – had been thoughtlessly smashed on our front walk.
As a teenager and young adult, I had NEVER participated in such activities. I knew how much my belongings meant to me and showed respect to others. “Just a pumpkin” escalates into “just a car” or worse. I can’t wrap my mind around it. I don’t understand how anyone could act so maliciously to a stranger. I cried. I cried over smashed pumpkins. I cried over shattered creative plans and happy memories with my fiance that would never be. I cried because so many humans don’t get it.
But then it occurred to me – I can make a statement. I grabbed my wire, pliers, spoon, knife and piece of recycle pile newspaper and headed outside. I found my smallest annihilated in front of the neighbors. It had been run over too. Slowly and reverently I gathered three pumpkins worth of pieces. I’d give them new life.
Matt’s perfect pumpkin began to look more and more whole again. It’s now a bit more “Franken-esque” than before though.
I still have two more to unsmash today. This could be fun.
Lesson learned – Never smash an artist’s pumpkin – we find ways to enjoy it.