A Carved Smile
Finding Growth Within Growing
As many of you know, Halloween, and the surrounding month leading up to the holiday, is one of my favorite times of the year. While given many names, there’s an air about this particular period of time that grabs a hold of me from deep within, calming and cooling the heated spaces of my summer mind. The lore of Halloween, and the history containing it all, triggers such a response in me, I cannot help but be enveloped in its beauty. The transition of lush green, to bursts of autumnal colors on leaves I wish I had the vocabulary to properly describe, casts a spell I never want to be disenchanted from. This sensation creates a calming mood over my shadows, but like all things, you can’t appreciate the light, without the dark. We live in these contrasts.
Pumpkins have always played a special part throughout my entire life, an accessory of sorts to my favorite holiday, Halloween. The moment my young feet were first set upon the muddy ground of a pumpkin patch, a dream began stirring within my head. What manifested was a life of owning a massive farm outside the Portland area, exclusively growing pumpkins and Christmas trees.
The recollection of my first actual visit to a pumpkin patch is a bit hazy, though recalling memories of subsequent visits strung throughout my childhood is a touch easier. The lore of pumpkin patches rests easy in my mind. Gray overcast skies mixed with thin fluid fog, rubber boots sloshing about in the slick mud, the ever winding corridors of hay mazes, saliva filled hands from feeding baby goats, sticky caramel apples coating the exterior of one’s lips, and of course, the irreverent orange gourds in all their glory.
As the summer winds down, the chill of autumnal air moves inward, and the knocking door of October is finally opened, my mind often slips into this romanticized world of pumpkin patches. Oftentimes as a reminder of my love for the season, but sometimes, as a reprieve from the chaotic world.
Over my 35 years, this dream has faded in the background quite a bit. Growing older, and a bit wiser, I’ve learned the amount of effort (and loss) put forth into maintaining a farm (let alone the capital necessary to even own a piece of land) is a little more investment than I would like my hands to get dirty. There was still a comfort discovered within this dream though, envisioning myself standing in a field, lost amongst a sea of pumpkins. Even if my dream of owning a pumpkin patch would never come true, maybe my expectations could be dampened, and I could grow a pumpkin of my own.
Because of my pumpkin love, and dreams of pumpkin patches seeded within my heart, gardening has subsequently scattered its own influences throughout my life.
For my sister and me, our childhood was filled to the brim with yard work; or child labor, depending on who you asked in our family. The impending back to school season triggered a visceral response within our then innocent minds, knowing we would soon be spending full backbreaking days raking leaves in the yard.
Within the ephemeral beauty of the changing colors was a hibernating anxiety, as each precarious leaf falling from the trees soon meant begrudgingly trudging down to the backyard and stockpiling brown bags full of dying leaves. From our back deck, my sister and I would nervously eye the leaves accumulating knowing the weekend day would come when our parents would deliver those stinging words “It’s time to rake the backyard”.
We had better things to do! Yardwork was the largest looming threat to our inclination of fun (though more so, in my case, playing computer games). To this day, it’s surprising autumn still claims the superlative spot as my favorite season, given the trauma associated with the grunt work doled out on a regular basis.
Of course, as my father reads these pieces, this is all in jest. To some degree. He’ll either laugh reading this, or flat out deny responsibility. More likely both.
Along with my aimless walks throughout the neighborhoods of Raleigh during the pandemic, gardening ended up being a positive hobby during a time of such uncertainty. A relationship at the time steered me into a beautiful house within the Woodcrest neighborhood, and along with ample amount of space within the home, copious amounts of yard space were also present.
While the available gardening space was initially left bare, while casually browsing reddit late one evening, the concept of finally gardening, finally planting that pumpkin, was conceived. “What do you know is true without evidence?” an inquisitive user asked, and while many of the answers were fascinating to say the least, one stood out to me in particular:
“That gardening is the secret to happiness.”
My interest piqued.
The user continued:
“I just think there's something about being outside in the sun, feet on soil, hands in dirt, planting shit. Watching it grow in the background of your life. Going out and checking on it and watching how much bigger it is getting. Watching life find it, and now you get to live WITH the natural world, not isolated from it.”
This sentiment enraptured my bones, my mind clasping firmly around a positive distraction from the hellscape present in our vicinity. Over the next week, parts of the yard were dug up, soil replaced, and beer barrels cut in half to be used as planters. Everything from herbs to cherry tomatoes, to a pinot noir root, and yes, of course, a pumpkin, was planted.
For once in a long time, my body breathed a sigh of relief, releasing tension and pressure from each physical motion gardening provided. With the world in absolute distraught & chaos, gardening proved to be more literally grounding than any meditation done at the time. The future fall harvest was a wandering reverie; dreaming of the morning the pumpkin would be picked, placed on the front stoop, awaiting carving on some following day. My childhood dream would finally come to fruition.
After arriving home, post work, one summer afternoon, I found myself faced against a formidable foe. The local birds had taken a liking to my garden, swooping and clawing their way through the netting installed to prevent these intruders from destroying my garden. More advanced precautions were set in place against these pesky beasts; broken cds reflected in the sun, foil, even a small skeleton scarecrow was erected. Unfortunately, my techniques proved worthless. One fateful August afternoon, the birds had finally won the war. To my complete and utter horror, they had indulged in quite the feast, engorging themselves on the fresh vines of my pumpkin plant. The roots had been savagely picked apart, leaving me the scrapes of my broken dreams. My head hung low this fruitless day. As for the remainder of the garden children, my attachment to them was sadly fleeting. Like the excitement behind adopting an exotic pet, my pandemic relationship was short lived, moving out of the house by the end of the summer.
If there’s ever any question about where my sense of humor is derived from, the answer is soon divulged the minute my father is met. This is not at all to say my mother didn’t carry her own joke bug; my goofy nature is oftentimes more attributed to her.
Before leaving for Ukraine in May of 2015, an attempt to complete my dream of growing a single pumpkin was constructed. In retrospect, the thought of growing pumpkins in Ukraine never crossed my mind, oddly enough. This was either from a lack of an actual garden existing there for my recreational use, or the whereabouts of said garden. Or, more than likely, the brewery always being top of mind, thus never asking in the first place.
Regardless, my parent’s backyard was deemed to be just about as good as any for a patch to proliferate. Pumpkin seeds were purchased from the local gardening center down the street, and my hands went to town. The backyard was surveyed for best area with consecutive daylight, finding a small patch of untouched dirt near the sidegate. Perfect. Breaking up the soil turned into a sizable effort due to its clay nature, but in the end, proper mounds were constructed, and the correct distance between seeds was measured before eventually being planted. The patch was absolutely hideous aesthetically, but hell, it was mine. As goodbyes were said on my parting ways to Ukraine, my parents promised to water the seeds regularly, planning to keep me updated on how things were looking down in the side yard.
Of course, my first summer months in Ukraine must have flown by, as the pumpkin patch never came to mind. But as soon as the chilly October air arrived, my knee jerk response was a sudden remembrance of my future potential orange children back in Oregon. An inquiring email was sent to my father about the family pumpkin patch. My dad soon disclosed the dogs hadn’t done their rightful duties in keeping the birds away, as the pesky buggers had gotten to the majority of the original seeds planted. Luckily, my father revealed, one pumpkin had managed to fight off the attackers, and had grown to a fitting stature.
An image was attached to the email. My parent’s backyard was recognized immediately at first glance, but the precise spot was my little pumpkin patch at the side. Faded brown fencing ran along the side, mid-morning sunlight peeking through, and illuminating the center was the named gourd in all its orange glory, surrounded by bountiful sage green vines.
My face beamed with excitement. My dream had come true - my own pumpkin grew forth (with help of a few caretakers, of course). It was essential the news of my pumpkin was delivered to the world. After indulging my fellow Ukrainian coworkers and friends, a post waxing nostalgic about Halloween and growing pumpkins was dispersed to social media platforms. The photo immediately became the background on my phone, radiating pride over my creation everytime the screen was opened.
When evening later fell upon Ukraine, and the West Coast was finally waking up, my sister sent a snickering message, beginning with a long “Hahahaha”. After inquisitive minds replied with a “What?”, she soon revealed the devastating truth behind the pumpkin photo. My father, in all his prankster glory, had bought a pumpkin from Trader Joe’s, plopped the beautiful orange squash in the patch of yard I had constructed, and taken a photo to send to yours truly. My mouth was agape in both heartbreak and complete baffling awe from the trick. The prank was so simple & well-executed - all the calling cards of my father. My father initially feigned innocence when interrogated about his ruse over a video call, but as soon as a coy smile crept across his face - the same seen in myself - his cover was blown.
After both of my parents had an abundant laugh at my soon decrepit rotting joy, they soon told me a blight of powdery mildew had infected the pumpkin plant late in the season, impeding the growth of any fruit. While my pride is still hurt to this very day, especially now within the conjured up memories for storytelling, my respect for one of my father’s better pranks lives on.
Minutes after settling into my Bed-Stuy (Brooklyn) apartment in April of last year, my mind was instantly dead set on participating in a community garden. After having a hellish beginning of the year, finding some form of reprieve within the chaos of my mind was a necessity. After relentless searches through the GrowNYC database, contacting gardens in the surrounding area, and even in other boroughs, had come up empty. The vast majority of gardens required a hefty volunteer regimen, and wouldn’t even distribute a plot until you’ve volunteered for a few years. If you were lucky, maybe a plot would be acquired if someone else left. As I would come to learn though, garden plots are like goldmines or inheritances to NYC citizens; held onto with a tight grasp, and passed down generationally. The system was a tough vault to crack, and my stubborn self hated this ladder climbing system. Who has the time, my thoughts would shout to the heavens. While defeat was shamefully admitted, a vow was still forged, wishing a garden plot existed somewhere in this realm.
As if my fortuitous wishes were heard amongst the crowded howling of noise, my new roommate became my saving grace, alerting me of a local Facebook group post promoting a newly rehashed garden. This particular community garden had been closed down a few years due to covid, and a new garden management group had recently taken over responsibility. The best part? The garden was a mere few minutes walk away, and had several plot openings. Satisfied elation electrified my soul, and the group was emailed within minutes.
Unfortunately, the garden was struggling through growing pains in its own right. The community garden was heavily mismanaged in initially reopening, and my plot was designated too late in the summer to ever plant anything. Luckily, this year, management had their heads attached a little better, and my garden plot was finally assigned. For a few months we played with the prospect of possibly moving back to Portland, our decision wavering quite a bit, until finally deciding to push the move back until an unknown later date. When we finally pinned down we would stay in New York, gardening time was on.
Of course, pumpkins and watermelon were the other choices in terms of what would be planted. After the various attempts of the past few years, coming up against dozens hindrances, a promise was made to ensure successful results. The plot sizes themselves were fairly large in size, and lucky enough for me, the plot next to mine was never taken. This extra space became a godsend, as the vines from both the pumpkin & watermelon took off like weeds. By the time we returned from Portland at the beginning of August, my estimations of their growth were critically under shot. As my hands rooted around in and between the vines of the two plants, my eyes feasted upon several beginnings of both pumpkin and watermelon fruit. The dream was alive, once again.
Like all my other attempts at growing pumpkins, misfortune reared its head once again. By mid-August, the pumpkin vines had begun to develop powdery mildew. Seeing the disease plenty of times prior in hop plants grown at my parents house, measures to curb its growth would need to be done immediately. Looking closely now at the photo sent from my father during the pumpkin prank, the disease intercepted its way in there, as well. Powdery mildew has followed me my whole life, a serial killer out for vengeance, preying on my tended gardens. With crossed fingers, the bad leaves were removed, and my plot sprayed with a natural fungicide to ward off any expansion of this annoying blight. To my luck, the fruits of both plants were seemingly undisturbed by the disease, and a sigh of relief exalted from my body. A little over a month, I would whisper into their vibrant emerald vines, just make it a little over a month, and you’ll be ready for harvest.
While both the pumpkin and watermelon fruits had begun to grow rapidly over August, their growth began to slow down to a concerning point come the beginning of September. With the community garden lacking proper airflow due to the high walls surrounding all sides, the powdery mildew was able to spread faster than anticipated. My belief in the earlier curbing of the infection had faded. Underneath the soil, the disease had already taken a stronghold. As the watermelon showed signs of the unsightly white powder on its leaves, the pumpkin vines turned to brown gunk before my eyes. My lush garden plot from months prior had turned into a graveyard of deteriorating dreams.
The stunting of the fruit left me absolutely devastated. Standing there, amongst the yellowed withering vines and stunted fruits, tears began to rain from my eyes. As though the effort put forth to keep them happy was lackluster, and sustaining them with the proper nutrients necessary to ward off the malevolence of disease induced detriment. Their demise felt entirely on me, and I couldn’t help but feel completely responsible. So much pride, love, and hard work had gone into taking care of these plants. Seeing the garden in its shape now felt like a reflection of myself. If a single plant couldn’t be kept alive by my own volition, managing the care of myself, not to mention those around me, felt like a Sisyphean task.
Both stunted watermelons were inspected, then crushed within my hands, out of frustrated agony. Their insides revealed what could have been of these potential summer fruits. My dream of slicing the melon open and feasting on the literal fruits of my labor on an unusually warm autumn day was all but a distant ghost now.
While the single pumpkin was quite severely stunted, a glint of hope could be seen within the color transformation of its outer skin. At first recognition of the stunting, the pumpkin was a complete dark pine green, but now, surrounded by yellow vines, the pumpkin was showing signs of its signature pumpkin orange cascading through. Premature for its size, sure, but right on schedule for the changing of the season.
Removing the little pumpkin from its deteriorating stem, rotating its feeble body around in my hands, examining for rot, the pumpkin looked like it would be fine after all. It looks ok, muttering the words in surprise, under my breath. Hope was slowly meandering its path through my heavy-hearted body.
Despite the trials and tribulations of the powdery mildew, this pumpkin survived. Staring at this semi-orange beauty in my hands, a realization cropped up. My dream had come true. I had grown an actual pumpkin on my own.
Was this the gargantuan orange beast I envisioned myself carving into, a few days prior to Halloween? Absolutely not. A lesson I’ve always tried to sow throughout my life is curbing my expectations. In moments like these, it’s extremely necessary. The pumpkin was grown all by myself. A sigh of relief washed over my body, a sense of accomplishment and calm sweeping away the anxiety of failure. Maybe this little fellow, despite its size, would ‘live’ to see its carving day. Wiping my tears away, a smile ran across my face.
Self-compassion has never been an easy road for myself. Learning now, especially in these tiny moments amongst grief, the necessity for allowing self reassurance to climb inside one’s mind. Beating oneself up over failures leads only down a dark road with no end in sight, and no flashlight to guide the way. Within these moments of failure, learning to see how your attempts are accomplishments, in and of themselves. They’re lessons in experience, lessons to learn from for the future; even if the outcome wasn’t as you were hoping.
Giving myself credit for finding a plot, taking the time and energy to nurture the growth of these beautiful plants, and attempting to ward off a disease that’s haunted all my growth attempts, is all due credit for myself. And for the growing season next year, I’ll know what to expect, and how to handle potential unforeseen outcomes before they arise.
Maybe this feeling of frustration, of grief, stems exclusively from my mother being gone. If there was one shared commonality between us, it was our love for Halloween specifically. My curiosity is piqued on whether my fascination with Halloween came first, then her investment, or if my mother’s love for this ghoulish night arises from her own childhood. She was always one for elaborate holiday decorations, but between the two of us, Halloween always felt innately special.
My memories of departing to the local pumpkin patch with my mom will always be cherished. It was the most anticipated day in all of October, always feeling elusive, like it may never arrive. Even without her here for the last 2 years of Halloween, those pumpkin patch filled days still are the most anticipated of all.
I’ll leave you now with one of my favorite Halloween quotes:
“It's said that All Hallows' Eve is one of the nights when the veil between the worlds is thin - and whether you believe in such things or not, those roaming spirits probably believe in you, or at least acknowledge your existence, considering that it used to be their own." - Erin Morgenstern
Happy Halloween everyone. Don’t blow out your pumpkin candles until after midnight, they protect you.
See you in November.
Cory