by Joan Bauer
“My father,” Dad continued, “insisted I love farming. I couldn’t do it. Our relationship never survived. He told me I’d never leave Iowa. I told him he was dead wrong. I’d leave as soon as I could and only come back for Christmas dinner. He said I’d find the place in me where farming was supposed to be and let it grow.” Dad looked at the back porch for a long time. “It’s too late to tell him he was half right.”
Dad sat deeper in the dirt, and a quiet broke over his face that I hadn’t seen in years. “Watching you last night, Ellie, seeing the interest people have in what you’ve done, I seem to have found it.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying,” Dad explained, “that I’ve found farming again.”
My father? A farmer?
“You start sneezing when you get near Nana’s barn,” I reminded him.
“That’s true.”
“You eat sushi.”
“I do.”
“You’re going to take Japanese lessons; you watch foreign films—”
“With subtitles,” Dad offered.
“Subtitles.” I winced. “Your fingernails are always clean.” I checked mine—grungy—and sat on my hands. “That’s a dead giveaway, you know, and what about that silk sport jacket from Chicago? You sleep late. You can’t be a farmer!”
“You’re absolutely right,” Dad said, standing and brushing off his trousers. “I can’t. But I’m going to help you be one, if that’s what you want for yourself.” Dad paused like he did on his tapes for a hard truth to sink in. I ate two pieces of cornbread without chewing. “It occurred to me, Ellie, that in fighting you I was fighting myself. Your grandmother’s been trying to get that through to me for years. This morning it finally sunk in.” He extended his hand. “I’m sorry, honey.”
I looked at his hand—it was manicured and smooth. I wiped the dirt off mine and shook Dad’s hand quickly. I cleared my throat; Dad harrumphed. I patted compost mixture around Max’s base to ground him for the storm and threw some dirt at a woodchuck who was getting on my nerves. Dad hugged me hard and told me he was sorry again. I hugged him back and got dirt all over his shirt.
“I can help you,” Dad said, “gain a new perspective with Max here.” I didn’t need a new perspective. I needed a tornado to hit Cyril’s patch.
“Winning,” Dad said softly, “is my specialty. I think I can help you win.” I sighed because when Dad applied himself it always came with emotional perspiration.
“Stand up,” he directed. “Repeat after me—”
“I’m a little beat, Dad, could we do this—”
“Stand!” I stood. “Now repeat after me: I reject all past negative programming.”
I whispered it: “I reject all past negative programming.”
“I believe in myself and the gift within me.”
“I believe in myself,” I said, “and the gift within me.”
“Nothing will hold me back,” Dad ordered. “Not weather, not fear, not discouragement. I am called to this task at this time.” I said it, sensing courage. “My father,” said Dad, “is not going to fight me anymore. He promises.” I said that, too, as two woodchucks snuck up behind Max, their knives and forks ready. Dad stamped his mighty foot and banished them from the patch.
The hail came after lunch just like “The Early-Morning Farm Report” predicted. Richard had left with his mother to wait for Wallace the repairman. Wes arrived dressed for battle in a heavy parka with gloves and lugging seven more blankets. We covered Max with two reemay cloths and sixteen blankets to absorb shock, dug a runoff ditch, and lined the ground under his belly with drainage tiles. Wes told me to picture being on a warm beach with Max at my side sucking up sunshine and vitamin C. Storm clouds gathered like dark invaders ready to strike.
Wes rubbed Max’s stem and told him to hold on. Wes was still sniffling from his stubborn cold and about to be pelted with hailstones. I wanted him to know I thought he was the most wonderful boy I’d ever met and when this was over we would be a solid couple. This concept was tough to introduce, since we always talked about Max, growing, and his aunt Izzy, who sounded like a motivational squash therapist: “She could stand in front of a pumpkin that was withering, Ellie, I mean withering on the vine, look it straight in the eye, and tell it it looked fine.”
The rain fell cold and fast. The clouds poured down, the sky went black, the wind whooshed stronger. “Here we go!” Wes cried as we held down the blankets covering Max. Puddles were appearing, the cold mud sloshing against our boots.
“Hang on!” he shouted, pulling a blanket back in place. “I can see it now. Eighty-five degrees, southern Florida, watermelon, lemonade, the surf.”
“You’re certifiable!”
“Max,” Wes roared, “don’t listen to her! It’s warm, Max! Warm and toasty! Can you feel it?”
Max seemed to dig his heels in as the rain turned to slush and then to hail. Hanging out in a hailstorm, many say, is not intelligent or fun. They’re right. The hail came down in small stones at first, but soon the black clouds pushed together and squeezed out giant balls that hit ferociously. We buried our noses in the blankets to cover our faces and hung tight to Max. Dad ran outside in his thigh-high fishing boots, holding a huge tarp. He flung it over us and ducked underneath. “Well,” Dad said from under the tarp’s darkness, “you must be Wes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The tarp was a brilliant move, shielding us from the cold wind and the sting of the hailstones’ landing. We held it high like a tent over Max.
“When this is over,” Dad continued, “I’d like to shake your hand, Wes.”
Wes said that would be fine and sneezed. The hail kept coming, but we stood fast, protecting Max from devastation. Ice balls collected on the ground. We sang “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” three times, “Old Man River,” and hummed the “Michigan Fight Song.”
But I didn’t think we could make it. What was I trying to prove? I looked at Wes. His look back to me said it all. I steadied myself as the hail slowed like the last kernels of popcorn left in a hot pan.
“Is it over?” Dad asked.
Wes peered out and gasped. He threw off the tarp to reveal a land of frozen ice balls sculptured on fences, roofs, and trees. Wes kicked hailstones from Max’s base. Dad went for the shovel and cleared a two-foot circular path around the patch.
“There,” said Dad, patting Max. “I don’t see how Cyril Pool could have possibly survived that.”
We had beaten the odds and had a fine celebration of hot cider, grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches with honey mustard, and pears. It was wonderful cooking for Wes, and he even helped me heat the cider. Twice our shoulders touched at the stove, and he smiled at me during both of his coughing fits.
We drank a toast to Big Daddy’s demise and didn’t say anything nasty about Cyril until the end. The sun was shining nicely, the ice was melting nicely, and the five-day forecast through Thursday on “The Early-Morning Farm Report” was good weather with gentle wind. Perfect for drying out soggy ground. Perfect for plugging in electric blankets and warming squashes. Perfect for the Rock River Pumpkin Weigh-In and Harvest Fair’s opening day. Nana called and I told her everything was perfect.
Richard, just returned from the old Winger property on his regular weekend spying mission, called to break the balloon. Cyril and Herman had rigged a shack of two-by-fours with a plywood roof over Big Daddy to protect him from hail, natural disasters, and nuclear war.
“You mean,” I shouted, “Big Daddy survived? The hail, the freezing rain—”
“Didn’t touch him. Sorry.”
“But Cyril doesn’t have the brains to think of something like that!”
“Maybe,” said Richard, “he hired a consultant.”
“Big Daddy’s rotting to death,” I grumbled. “I know it.”
“I guess we’ll see,” Richard said, “on Thursday.”
The Rock River Clarion hit Robertson’s Newsstand (“All the news that’s
fit to sell”) Sunday morning—Nana was the first in line and bought twenty-two copies and a Baby Ruth. The first installment of Gordon Mott’s four-part series about me and Max was front-page center: “Go for It: The Story of a Girl and Her Pumpkin.” He called me “a new American heroine with a courageous heart,” which was absolutely true, and an “honors student,” which was absolutely fiction, guaranteed to make Miss Moritz choke.
Justin, who had been out of town visiting his grandmother, read the article and went into deep, cosmic panic. The Defender, he screamed, was coming out to the entire school Monday morning with no mention of Ralphie or the arrest. He was going to look like a fool. Why hadn’t he been notified? I told him he wouldn’t look like as big a fool as Ralphie who found out too late that heinous crime doesn’t pay.
Wes called to congratulate me on being brave and to say he had a 104-degree fever and wouldn’t be around for a while. I felt awful and apologized for everything. He said he’d think warm thoughts in Max’s direction, sneezed with greatness, and hung up. Mannie Plummer called to say I looked pasty in the Clarion’s cover photo and to rub a little rouge on my cheeks the next time. Nana said she’d never been so proud. Dad said I looked extremely motivated and filled with potential. Mrs. McKenna called to say that this was the press coverage needed to propel the Rock River Pumpkin Weigh-In and Harvest Fair to worldwide prominence.
Nana had me autograph each newspaper for friends and family. She said that this was going to be a whirlwind week and that true champions always keep perspective. I assured her, while applying double-strength lash-building mascara, that nothing had changed—I was the same humble Ellie. Nana said one tube of mascara per eye was probably enough. JoAnn and Grace came over and we decided the best way to handle fame was to love it. I practiced writing my signature round and bold for autograph seekers as JoAnn and Grace rummaged through my closet for the “right” outfits to wear throughout the week.
I had always wanted to walk down the hall at school and have people notice me like they noticed Sharrell. JoAnn said that even though Sharrell was a head-turner, she’d never made the front page of the Clarion. I knew as I walked through the double doors of Rock River High that my entire life had changed. I paused at the drinking fountain, tossed Mother’s earrings, and floated to first period study hall.
Mr. Greenpeace shook my hand, Mr. Soboleski slapped my shoulder, Miss Moritz clucked her tongue and said that “honors students are never late turning in midterm papers on General Patton.” Crash Bartwald, Rock River’s ace quarterback who had never so much as looked in my direction, asked if Max and I would ride in a float for the Homecoming Parade. Justin Julee slapped the Defender on my desk with a photocopied “late-breaking news addition” taped under my story. Justin said it made the edition look aesthetically lousy and amateurish, but at least Rock River High would have the hard news he had promised to deliver when he took his journalistic oath. He’d been up all night taping them on and didn’t want to hear any cracks.
I was surrounded by kids in the cafeteria, surrounded by people in the halls—people who had not been my friends before but who were now at my side like old buddies.
Gordon Mott came to school to interview my teachers and classmates for his second “A Girl and Her Pumpkin” article. Miss Moritz described me as “a creative thinker who always brought something to class discussion.” God didn’t strike her dead. Justin showed Gordon Mott his article and said that the entire school was behind me, and that he, Justin, was in particular, always had been, and would be covering the festival for the Defender. Sharrell said we’d been friends for years. Mr. Soboleski said he was sure I was going to win, sure I would do the school proud, and sure that Rock River High would have a bang-up baseball season with Dennis’s replacement, the new first baseman, Bart Tiller. Bart Tiller said he was going to go out there and do what he had to do.
Fifty-four kids told me to have a good day when Richard and I left to go home. Richard was used to some of this because after a big game, partial baseball stars often get mobbed.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “People are always impressed by the wrong stuff.”
I thought about that as we walked to Nana’s. Here I was, a great and famous pumpkin personality at age sixteen. The world was at my feet all because of Ralphie, who was hanging by his earlobes in his father’s barn, doing deep penance.
“It’s strange the way it works,” Richard continued. “You don’t get famous by being sure and steady. You’ve got to make the big play. And it doesn’t matter if you do it in practice. You’ve got to do it when people are looking.” Richard threw his ball perfectly into a hollow log, like I’d seen him do a hundred times. “So you give the fans what they want, you know?”
“I don’t know…something about that makes me sad.”
“You made it, so enjoy it.”
“Commercial endorsements?” I kidded.
“You need an agent first.”
“I’m a grower. I don’t need an agent.”
“An agent,” explained Richard, “lines that stuff up and protects you.”
“From what?”
Richard thought: “From endorsing a line of frozen pumpkin pies that would give half the country food poisoning and kill your career.”
“I can’t think about this.”
“You wouldn’t have to think about it if you had an agent.”
Nana was on the phone when we arrived. She was trying to convince Mrs. Lemming to come out of her house, but Mrs. Lemming was frozen in shame and wasn’t budging. Nana told Mrs. Lemming that staying inside was bad for the soul and that she should decorate her house (the last on the parade route) for the festival like she always did, because she wasn’t to blame for Ralphie’s lowdown ways. Nobody, Nana explained, ever blamed the grandmother of a boy who went bad. It was always the parents’ fault, so she could hold her head high.
I loved the days before the festival. It was better than Christmas. Wooden pumpkins sprang up on lawns and porches. Pumpkins of every size filled wheelbarrows and baskets near doorways and store windows. Blinking lights and harvest scenes framed Marion Avenue’s retail row. Phil Urice dressed like a pumpkin and walked the streets shouting, “Ho, ho, ho!” Even the streetlights were painted orange and repainted gray again in time for election day.
Rock River’s three hotels filled with returning family and old friends who’d come back to the scenic shores to clomp across Marion Avenue and sniff the smell of pumpkin in the air once again. Hotels within twenty-five miles bulged with visitors. The event had grown to almost the size of a small state fair, and accounted for 89 percent of the town’s yearly profit. It had produced one star, Freddy Bass—three-time winner of the festival’s statewide oratory contest, now a television sports commentator for the second-place ABC affiliate in Boise.
Frieda Johnson sold cemetery decorations of orange and brown dyed carnations. Rock River’s dead population stayed in style throughout the year thanks to Frieda, but never did the gravestones explode with such gaiety as during festival days. Mr. Soboleski erected a five-foot wooden pumpkin by his dear mother’s grave across from Mannie Plummer’s father’s plot. Mannie complained the Soboleski pumpkin was in bad taste and blocked her father’s view of Founders’ Square below. Mr. Soboleski moved it one foot back, trimmed a bush to improve the view, and said if her father couldn’t see Founders’ Square now there was something wrong with him.
My mother was buried in The Roses Cemetery in Circleville, and she was surrounded by flowers. It was like a gentle meadow filled with color—perfect for a grower. Birds sang, a little stream flowed with clear water. People didn’t march through The Roses at festival time because everyone came to Rock River, where the action was. That’s why Dad chose it. Mother liked her privacy. In early spring she’d even tiptoed around her garden to not disturb her daffodil sproutings.
Nana had to go to town to decorate Grandpa’s grave. Richard and I went with her because we had a heavy load of homework and were looking for a
nything to postpone the pain. Nana was sensible about death and didn’t get emotional. She placed a huge basket of harvest flowers by his headstone, fixed it with a stake, and stamped her foot.
“If your grandpa were here he’d say that facing tough competition is what being a Morgan is all about, that bad weather is part of the growing life—you handle it and don’t bellyache.” Nana patted the headstone and looked straight at me. “That man was a lion when it came to being ornery.”
Richard was uncomfortable in cemeteries, tried to look reverent, and spoke in hushed tones. He asked Nana if she wanted to sit with Grandpa for a while. Nana said good and loud that she’d sat with him for thirty-seven years and had better things to do.
We got pumpkin swirl ice cream from the 31 Flavors that was decked out with orange crepe paper and Indian corn. Outside on Marion Avenue, huge tables were being set up to hold the smaller pumpkin and squash entries that would start showing up Wednesday afternoon. By Wednesday the good food smells would float from homes and cottages as bakers perfected their prize pumpkin creations. Mannie Plummer would have tried and thrown out five batches of her pumpkin fudge because it always took Mannie seven tries to get it perfect. By Thursday morning at least 400 pumpkins, small to mammoth, would fill the avenue, circling the great scale Mrs. McKenna’s grandfather had donated to the Weigh-In. 150,000 people would fill the streets of Rock River, anticipating The Great Moment.
I left Richard and Nana and stood before the scale where the Sweet Corn Coquette contestants would gather and wave in their yellow chiffon dresses. That contest would not take place until early February, but Bob Robertson of Robertson’s Newsstand found that building up the anticipation was good for the contest and very good for business. I was not crazy about Max sharing the spotlight with Sharrell and her attendants. I was not happy that Big Daddy was completely hidden from view and not out fighting like a man. I missed Wes, who would probably miss the Weigh-In and forget all about me.
I touched the scale that would make or break my future and wilted under the terrible stress of competition. Everyone was counting on me. What if I didn’t pull it off? “America doesn’t do second place unless it’s absolutely unavoidable,” Gordon Mott had said.
