by Joan Bauer
“Oh, yes!” shouted Wes, slapping his thigh. “Rot’ll do that. It’s an awful bad thing!”
“Awful bad!” Dad yelped.
Yes, indeed. It was beautiful!
Gordon Mott grinned as Max and I rose to reach our full agricultural potential. Click. Big Daddy lay at our feet—soup and slop. Click. Mrs. McKenna shifted like a queen who was losing control of her kingdom. “There will be,” she croaked, “a brief intermission while we clean this…mess up.”
Click.
But the crowd wasn’t having any, and they weren’t going away. The sheriff dragged Cyril from the scale as garbageman Pete Ninsenzo checked the damage. It was great, wonderful damage—big, yucky, and deep. Pete and two men carried what was left of Big Daddy’s shell away. The Rock River Volunteer Fire Department backed their truck in close and yanked out their hoses. Nobody cared how long it took to clean the mess up. It could have taken all night, all week, nobody was leaving.
The Ellie people started shouting my name. Phil Urice gunned his truck into place as Cyril moved off in agony.
“Ellie! Ellie!”
The Volunteer Fire Department hosed down the area, and you couldn’t tell there’d been a recent death there at all, except for Cyril’s wailing in the distance and a few soaked streamers still hanging from the scale. Mrs. McKenna’s lips looked like they’d been yanked tight with string. Mr. McKenna was chuckling off by the 31 Flavors Harvest Turkey. Miss Moritz’s eyes were filled with the wisdom of history as she stood arm in arm with General Patton sipping pumpkin brandy in public below the scale where the great pumpkin Weigh-In winner was about to be announced to the crowd who already knew.
Francis Lueking’s pumpkin was shuffled on and off like a bad act. “You did fine,” she whispered to her squash. “It just wasn’t our year.”
It was my year!
“Number Ninety-six! Ellie Morgan!”
Nana hugged me hard. Wes helped me down from the truck like I was Cinderella. The Sweet Corn Coquettes lined up ready to shake my hand. I sucked in my stomach and tossed Mother’s earrings. My eyes met Dad’s, and our hearts knit together for all the world to see.
Foot-stomping and cheering people lined Marion Avenue underneath the hazy spotlights. A drumroll sounded. Mr. Soboleski blew his whistle. Dad, Wes, Richard, and Phil Urice marched forward to lift Max to victory. Mayor Clint rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a corner of Max’s blanket to show he was a man of the people. The men shouted, “One, two, three,” and hoisted Max like the true star he was onto the blanket.
“Ahhhhh,” said the crowd as the blanket groaned under Max’s humongous size. The men grunted and groaned and slid him onto the scale.
“Ohhhhhh,” said the crowd.
“Six hundred eleven point seven pounds!” cried the weigher. “And solid, ladies and gentlemen. Through and through! We have ourselves a winner and a new Harvest Fair record!”
Yessirree!
There could have been a space shuttle launch right there on Marion Avenue and nobody would have noticed. The whoop that came from the people set the ground to moving. I jumped and raised my arms in victory. Orange confetti flew from hands like little butterflies. I hugged Max and took a bow.
Crash Bartwald and two defensive backs lifted me on their shoulders and paraded to the 31 Flavors Harvest Turkey, where the entire school gathered to show the adults where the real power in town was. Then everything started to blur. The clapping, the people. Dad waved from the crowd like I’d just been elected president. Wes stood with me. Richard jumped on a truck and made loud, immature sophomore noises. JoAnn and Grace threw confetti. The Tribune reporter asked me a question, and I couldn’t think to answer. Justin asked how I felt about winning, which seemed really stupid, and I knew he’d make a great reporter someday.
People wanted me to say something, give a speech, make a comment, go on the record, be wonderful. But there was nothing to say because Max said it all. I was a grower and I’d done it. I’d killed myself trying and I didn’t want to talk about it right now. I wanted to feel it, like a pumpkin soaks up the sun. I wanted it to be quiet, like it was in the patch, for just a moment. In the patch I could always catch my breath, I could always pick up the earth and let it run through my fingers. I could remember who I was.
Wes asked folks to back off real nicely. He put his hand around my shoulder and I leaned into him, glad for his protection. Max, the Biggest Pumpkin in Iowa, was covered with streamers and having a wonderful time. It was then that Wes leaned down and kissed me. Quick, you know. Not too dry or wet, but moist and full of promise—like good soil. My first kiss, with ninety million people watching, including my father and grandmother and loudmouthed cousin. I kissed him back and felt the sewers shake under Marion Avenue. We turned and faced the crowd, our couplehood sealed in front of the entire world—the Past President of the Gaithersville Ag Club and the Winner of the Rock River Harvest Fair and Pumpkin Weigh-In who had just set a festival record with a 611.7-pound giant, which also happened to be the greatest pumpkin in the world.
Who said agriculture is boring?
The blue ribbon Mrs. McKenna pinned on me was better than any of the blue ribbons she’d pinned on Cyril’s smelly shirt for the past four years. Those were a wimpy shade of robin’s egg blue, but mine was midnight blue, the color of a new Crayola crayon you’d use to color an important sky. The ribbon was long like a sash and had bright white letters. It read: 1ST PLACE, ROCK RIVER HARVEST FAIR AND PUMPKIN WEIGH-IN—GIANT PUMPKIN ADULT DIVISION, which, you’ve got to admit, is a terrific thing to say. At the bottom was a gold tassel that looked wonderfully official against my floppy orange blouse. Richard said I could probably rent a car with it even though I didn’t have my license yet. Louise Carothers got measly second place and a short red ribbon with no character whatsoever and absolutely no tassel. I held my winner’s check for $611.70—Max’s weight at a dollar a pound. Frieda Johnson covered Max with a giant horseshoe wreath. Wes put an orange derby hat over his stem, which made him look handsome and debonair.
Dad watched, beaming, his arm around Nana, waiting for me to reach my full potential and motivate the audience. Gordon Mott, the Tribune reporter, and Justin waited for my golden words.
I stepped to the microphone and said, “Thank you for believing in me and being my friends.”
The people smiled at this and moved forward. They wanted more, and there wasn’t any. Winston Churchill could have aced this gathering, General Patton would have whipped everyone into formation, but being a grower, I let my vegetable speak for himself. I stepped back as Max took center stage.
The sheriff was the first to shake my hand, and now I was shaking all the hands that shot my way. Dad jumped onstage and hugged me with total pride. Wes walked up, My Boyfriend, and hugged me with all the love in the universe. Mannie Plummer hugged Mayor Clint who she’d never voted for and probably never would. Jock Sudd shook Phil Urice’s hand and Roxye snapped a picture of it in case they went back to hating each other in the morning. Spears tried to hug Aunt Peg and had to settle for a handshake. Grace hugged her mother, who hugged her happy Harvest hat because change comes hard to people of deep tradition.
Max soaked up the love like it was sunshine as Mother, Grandpa, and Bud DeWitt smiled down from Above.
Phil Urice’s truck with me, Wes, Richard, and Max was moving down Marion Avenue for the four-block Parade of Champions that nobody had turned out for during the past four years because who wanted to look at Cyril and his extreme grunginess shoving it in everyone’s face so early in the morning? Roxye had decorated the truck with orange balloons and SQUASH ’EM, ELLIE! signs, and we rolled down Marion Avenue like returning astronauts from deep space who had captured the hearts of all America and who had done something magical and wonderful that everyone wanted to do, if everyone was being totally honest with themselves. I was waving and smiling, not like a Sweet Corn Coquette, mind you, but like a true growing champion. Richard was watching Wes and me closely with a look that said if
we got cuddly, he’d jump out. Max stood tall and proud, the Biggest Pumpkin in Iowa, as the people heaped tons of confetti from rooftops and trees in celebration of our momentous victory over evil.
It was nothing, really.
Louise Carothers was behind me in her trailer with not near as many balloons or streamers. Gloria Shack looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. Mrs. McKenna rode in her carriage silent in the face of a new pumpkin phenomenon. Gordon Mott interviewed Dad about what kind of a child I was. Dad lied, which I really appreciated.
Mayor Clint called me “a rising Rock River star.” The Tribune reporter interviewed me for forty-seven minutes and said I was the most determined teenager she’d ever met. Max was rolled back to his place near the big scale, where he would stay until Sunday afternoon, when the Rock River Pumpkin Weigh-In and Harvest Fair would be over.
I moved through the remaining festival days with the peace that comes from annihilating a despicable competitor. Wes was at my side. We shook hands with everyone. We smiled at children. We watched bakers stand beside their entries, swatting flies away, promising their husbands they would never do this again. Oral Perkins took a bite of Mannie Plummer’s pumpkin fudge and started coughing, nearly finishing Mannie off right there. We kissed behind the pumpkin taffy poster and behind the 31 Flavors Harvest Turkey. I thought kissing was right up there with blue-ribbon-winning and figured anyone who got both would need a good rest before the week was out.
We rode in hayrides and bought lemonade from every kid who had a stand. We bet Richard two dollars that Bomber Urice, the three-hundred-pound favorite in the great pumpkin-pie-eating contest, would beat last year’s record (seventeen) by two pies. He crashed to the ground after scarfing down his eighteenth pie. Richard stepped over Bomber’s leg and took our money.
The fair surrounded us with big, loving arms. Storytellers told tales. Pigs snorted across Marion Avenue for the 3:00 P.M. races. Oratory contestants rolled good, rich words from their mouths. But nobody drew a crowd bigger than mine. When you’ve grown the biggest pumpkin in Iowa, people come. They just can’t help themselves.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Max sat over his kingdom. In twenty minutes the festival would be over. I stood next to him in the winner’s circle in my new turquoise jumpsuit (size 12), which had greatness written all over it, right down to the price, which made Dad gag.
Mannie Plummer stood next to me, a blue ribbon for “Best Pumpkin Confection” pinned to her dress. Frieda Johnson got “Best Overall Baking Category” for her cinnamon syrup buns, which didn’t surprise anybody.
Gordon Mott ran out of things to say about pumpkins and the American spirit. 31 Flavors ran out of pumpkin swirl ice cream just in time, because everyone was getting sick of it. Bill Sudd ran out of customers, tipped back his hat, gazed into the sunset, and ran the Tilt-A-Whirl one last time.
The long shadows were forming on Marion Avenue—Mrs. McKenna’s looked like a giant gourd, a clear sign the magic was going. She hoisted the Rock River flag with the dancing pumpkin insignia in a final blessing as Phil Urice unleashed the giant pumpkin balloon with the town motto—OUR PUMPKINS WE PRIZE/OUR RIGHTS WE WILL MAINTAIN—up, up into the air to fall to earth we knew not where. The crowd cried and hugged each other and made their plans for next year, which would be better than ever.
Winners grinned. Losers said they’d try again. And like a wonderful movie, it was over, leaving the spirit of its story behind. The people sighed and walked off arm in arm, turning back for one last look at Max, the Biggest Pumpkin in Iowa.
Max was loaded onto Phil Urice’s truck, and Wes and I took him home. He went down with a thunk in his old place in the patch. Wes said he’d made pumpkins everywhere proud, which was absolutely true. But another truth was settling in, and I didn’t want to think about it.
Max had only a few more weeks to live.
The days scrambled together. Max and I rode in the Homecoming Parade lead float under an orange banner that read NO GUTS. NO GLORY. This was a deep honor; even Richard said so. Max wore a Rock River High pennant taped to his stem, and I wore a defensive end’s letter sweater that I had to give back to him after the game. Crash Bartwald jogged alongside in his football uniform, growling and spitting doom. We got devoured by the Ebberton Grizzlies, 21 to 3.
Halloween came, an awful holiday that insulted pumpkins everywhere—all those jack-o’-lanterns on doorsteps smiling like ghouls—any grower with a soul could see they were miserable. Richard came by on his way to Farley Raker’s immature sophomore Halloween party dressed as the Gory Blob from the Cave of the Blood-Soaked Dead. He had worn out his Babe Ruth costume and was going for a new look with eyes all over his head and neck.
“Why,” I shrieked, “can’t people carve a face on a watermelon or a cantaloupe? Why torture pumpkins?”
“They’re harvest vegetables.”
“I can’t have a conversation with you. You have fifty eyes.”
“I have thirty-three eyes,” Richard corrected. “Twenty-one more than Bart Tiller.”
“What’s he going as?”
“A mangy killer bat.”
“He did that last year.”
“Last year he was a depraved flying mammal.”
“What’s the difference?”
He raised his ketchup-stained sleeve: “A depraved flying mammal only has six eyes.”
“I hate Halloween!”
Richard hissed and was gone.
The days grew dark and gray. Flowers disappeared. Trees stood bare and lonely. Marion Avenue was back to normal, even though it had felt the touch of greatness only a few weeks before. Wes and I were getting this kissing business down whenever possible, which meant when Richard wasn’t around, but the hard truth of agricultural life pressed upon us. Max’s shell was turning soft. My Vegetable was turning to mush. I knelt beside him in the patch.
“A pumpkin, Max, is not forever.”
The ground was cold and ugly because it was November. It was going to be a long winter.
“I can’t keep you much longer. You’ve got to understand.”
I was rotten at explaining death to a vegetable, especially one as sensitive as him.
“Winter’s coming.”
Max stretched toward the sun. I patted him. “You can’t hang on anymore. You’re losing weight every day.”
I hated November. It was dark and cold and mean even though it had Thanksgiving and all those pre-Christmas sales. I think the Pilgrims should have picked another month that made you feel more like celebrating.
I hated winter. It was a waste of time and talent. Barns closed, tools hung from hooks, unused. Tractors sat quiet and dusty. Soil froze solid, the sun stepped back, growers slept late and ate brunch. Everything stopped and waited for spring. I hated winter even more than Mayor Clint, who’d promised to keep Bud DeWitt Memorial Drive clear of snow, something old Mayor Bumper couldn’t do, who said it was like trying to keep widows off an old bachelor. Mayor Bumper lost the widow vote that year, and everybody knows old bachelors are so cranky they don’t vote. Mayor Clint won hands down, but folks were watching him real close.
Nana said winter was God’s way of making growers catch their breath because the true ones would never do it on their own. She was right, too. If it were up to me, I’d be growing giants all year round, probably half dead from the strain and torture, gray before my time.
But Max didn’t last until winter. One week before Thanksgiving, he knew it was time. I knelt in the dirt with Wes to say good-bye.
“I won’t forget you, Max. You were the greatest squash in Iowa.”
“The greatest,” Wes agreed.
Max, a champion until the end, pushed up for one last reach to the sun. “I’ll plant your seeds in the spring, Max. I promise.” Wes held his stem. I took my cleaver and cut his flesh from top to bottom, again and again, until Max was a heap of chunks and muck. I was crying hard as we combed seeds from his insides and felt the pumpkin glop of an old friend run through my fingers—
it ripped my heart, I can tell you—but it had to be done for the cycle to be completed. Max had seeds of greatness that money couldn’t buy. Seeds that maybe could go the distance, like their father.
We lifted them carefully, knowing each one had a tiny embryonic plant inside filled with Max’s spirit. We dried them and put them on a tray in the shed like they were gold, which they were. Then we cut Max’s flesh and mashed it with corncobs and hay. Wes took a spade and I took one, too—we turned the earth over and over, and worked Max back into the soil where he had begun.
It was night before we finished.
We patted the last of Max into the earth. Wes stroked my hair, and warmth shot through me. I took a deep breath, a breath full of promise. I’d breathed it before as a grower lots of times—always when a squash relationship was over and a new one hadn’t begun—always when I thought about spring, the time to till the soil of the last vegetable to make way for the new one. I held the tray of Max’s seeds, thankful I could do the work I loved. Nana said life is a search to find who you are and who you aren’t, and when you’ve found that, you’ve got one of God’s best gifts.
This didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate crossover potential. I did want to have great cheekbones and wear turquoise pants suits and have people notice when I walked into a room. I wanted Cyril to go to Russia and mine salt in Siberia where they weren’t too keen on big-mouth competitors and a pumpkin would probably freeze the third week in August. I wanted to help Wes plant corn. I wanted to try to grow two giants next year, and I figured if that didn’t finish me off, nothing would.
In a few months winter would be over and I’d be starting again. The Rock River would rise with pike, bluegill, and crappies, the roadsides would fill with marsh marigolds. The cottontail rabbits would hop around the new spring crop. I would bang a sauté pan good and loud to get them away from my pumpkins, scaring the robins who flew overhead. I would shout at the ground to stay warm please, is that too much to ask?
