by Susan Warren
Dick Wallace had talked a good game at the club picnic, but he wasn't nearly as sanguine as he was trying to appear. True, years of disappointment had dulled the intensity of hope and leached away some of the excitement he used to feel at this point in the season. But in other ways he was as anxious as ever. He felt it most keenly not for himself, but for his son. Dick, like most fathers, wanted his son to have more than he ever had. If the Wallace luck was going to turn, he wanted it to turn for Ron.
Dick had pulled out the charts in late August and crunched the numbers. He'd listed all the championship pumpkins from the East Coast and calculated how much weight they had gained, on average, from the middle of August until the weigh-off in the first week of October. The results were remarkably consistent. Winning pumpkins had typically gained 400 to 450 pounds from August 15 to weigh-off time. The Wallace patch had a few pumpkins weighing close to a thousand pounds by August 15, so if these pumpkins followed the norm, they could expect to take 1,300- to 1,400-pounders to the weigh-off. And Dick figured if they had a pumpkin measuring 1,400 pounds, then they had a shot at a world record. "Because, you never know," he said hopefully, "sometimes they weigh a little more."
But August had not cooperated. The month started with intense heat, then socked growers with a cool spell that sent their plants into a shock they never recovered from. The weather extremes had slowed down growth just as the pumpkins were getting revved up. Most of the club's pumpkins never reached the kind of 40-pounds-a-day peak growth rates that pushed a fruit into championship territory. The last two weeks of August were chilly and rainy. People were already digging into the back of their closets to pull out their sweaters. "It's no good," Ron said. "There's no sun."
Ron saw his club's chances of becoming repeat champion slipping away. "I don't know, I don't know. It'll be hard." He was worrying about his own odds too. On their Tuesday measuring day, August 22, Ron noticed his biggest pumpkin's growth rate had dropped from 30 pounds a day to 17 pounds. And he knew that in September, it would gradually decline to nil. If he could get 150 or 175 pounds more in September, he'd count the month a success.
The Wallace plants were beginning to show their age. Some of the older leaves were yellowing and dying. Others were looking ragged. Powdery mildew fungus and bacterial leaf spot were taking a toll. Ron and Dick amped up their applications of compost tea. "We're spraying like hell," Ron said. "I was spraying in the pouring rain today. The rain washes it down into the root system. It's the best time to put it down."
They'd weighed Pap's Pride using an inline scale attached to the chain they used to lift the pumpkin. According to its measurements, they had estimated the pumpkin would weigh about 1,175 pounds when it split; its actual weight was 1,186 pounds. They had other pumpkins doing just as well. But Dick knew that it would be a fight to pile on much more weight in September. "The first twelve hundred pounds is sometimes the easy part," he said. "It's getting that last couple hundred that's a bitch."
Ron ran the numbers in his head every day. "Okay, I'm here now, we're doing this much a day, I know I'm always putting a hundred and fifty pounds on in September, I've got bigger plants . . . I think I've got four that could make a run at thirteen hundred. Could. Who the hell knows."
Ron was annoyed by anyone—well-meaning friends, even his dad—who looked at his pumpkins, looked at their measurements, and tried to pump up his hopes. He was having none of it. It was just more pressure—pressure that he didn't need. "People keep saying, 'Ronnie, you could do this; Ronnie, you could do that,'" he grumbled. "But who the hell knows? If my aunt had a package, she'd be my uncle."
"It's reality-check time," said Dave Stelts.
Stelts's best pumpkins in his western Pennsylvnia patch had stopped growing—just like that. "You sit and think you're doing real good," he said, "and all of a sudden Mother Nature rears her ugly head and lets you know she's still in control." By the end of the first week in September, Dave had one pumpkin measuring over 1,000 pounds. And he had two more he thought might "go heavy," weighing more than estimated. They had what Dave called good "thunka-bility." Growers measure that by leaning down over a pumpkin, pressing their ear to the shell, wrapping their arms around it, and giving it a good slap. Experienced growers believe they can tell by the vibrations whether they have a thick, solid pumpkin that's likely to go heavy, or a hollow balloon that would go light and weigh less than it measured. Dave thought he had a total of three that might go over 1,000 pounds if they went heavy. Plus, he said, "There's an outside chance Elephant Boy might surprise me."
Dave was hoping at least one of his pumpkins would get to 1,200 pounds. But he'd be happy with even 1,141 pounds. That would give him a new personal best, beating his 2000 world record. "That was my baby," Dave said, his voice warming sentimentally. "I grew the biggest pumpkin of the twentieth century—no one can take that away from me. But I tell you what, the twenty-first century has been a real bummer for me."
This was the time of year when everyone finally had a little time to sit back and look around and start guessing who would bring in the heavy ones. It was a kind of pumpkin parlor game full of intrigue and secrecy and guesswork. Competitive pumpkin growers were proud of their willingness to share information about how to grow the giants, but they were less willing to show their hand toward the end of the season. There were a variety of reasons for this. Mainly, growers who believed they had a chance at a world record didn't want to endure the embarrassment of being wrong. As soon as word began to leak out that they had a potential bomb sitting in their patch, the phone would start to ring. Everyone would want to know what it looked like, what it was measuring. Many would even want to come by and take a look for themselves. And then the growers, of course, would gossip. Was the pumpkin measured correctly? Was it a cork? Did it look like it weighed heavier than X's pumpkin? Or Z's pumpkin?
Ron and Dick Wallace were among those who preferred to keep their measurements to themselves, except for a few trusted growers within their own club. "When people ask me what I'm taping, I don't like to lie to 'em," Dick said. "I just tell 'em we're doing very well and we've got a couple over a grand. But a lot of these guys don't like to tell nobody nuthin'. And I understand why, because if they don't make it to the weigh-off, you have to answer all those questions. People will say, 'What happened to that eleven-hundred-pounder you said you had?' "
By September, Larry and Gerry Checkon knew for sure that it was not going to be another world-record year in the Checkon patch. Their careful watering routine and minimal fertilizing had kept disease out of their patch. But the weather never gave them a chance. The nights had stayed too cool, regularly dipping down into the 40s. Two of their four pumpkins had stopped growing early in the summer. When they'd arrived home after three days away attending the New Hampshire patch tour, they'd both gone straight out into the patch to measure their pumpkins in the dark. "You get to find out how they've been doing while you've been gone. It's so exciting!" Gerry said. Both of their remaining pumpkins had gained about 100 pounds each.
But on September 5, Larry's pumpkin had split along a sag line. That shut him out of the season and left the Checkon fortunes in Gerry's hands. Her orange 1225 Jutras was growing well despite all the drawbacks of the season, but not at a world-record pace. With a little coaxing, Gerry thought she might be able to get it to 1,200 pounds—big enough, she hoped, to win her local weigh-off. "At this point," she said, "you're trying to think of anything you can do. If I knew any voodoo dances that would work, I would do them."
The Checkons measured the fruit and watered it, and Gerry gave it a little lovin' every day. "I run my hands all over it and I say, 'You're so beautiful.' "
Local agricultural fairs were beginning to be held around the region. The fairs were a chance to spend a day immersed in rural culture, with pie-eating and pig races and bubble-gum-blowing contests, swine shows and sheep shows and llama shows, corn dogs and fried Twinkies. Farmers and garden hobbyists brought the best of their summer crops to b
e judged as tastiest or biggest or most beautiful. This was the traditional venue for pumpkin weigh-off contests.
But the giant pumpkins were sometimes lost in the blizzard of other events at these fairs. So over the years, as the hobby became more popular, growing clubs organized their own weigh-off con tests. The Ohio Valley growers weighed off at a local nursery and garden center owned by Tim Parks, one of the founders of the Ohio club. The Southern New England growers weighed off at Frerich's Farm, a small commercial farm and garden center in Rhode Island.
Growers, ideally, saved their biggest pumpkin for their own club's weigh-off, to add to the club's reputation. But growers lucky enough to end the season with several pumpkins intact wanted to make the most of their year of hard work. It was against the rules of the Great Pumpkin Commonwealth to take the same pumpkin to more than one weigh-off, or for one grower to enter more than one pumpkin at the same weigh-off. Not all weigh-offs were GPC-sanctioned, and only fruit weighed at GPC sites counted for the GPC's awards. But non-GPC weigh-offs still provided an opportunity for a grower to at least get an official weight and perhaps even win a prize. And since there were usually fewer, smaller pumpkins at the fairs early in September, even a 500- or 600-pound fruit could win.
After another week of rain and chill at the start of September, Ron was growing despondent. There were only three weeks before the big weigh-off at Topsfield Fair, and four weeks before the Southern New England club's weigh-off at Frerich's Farm. The pumpkins were only growing a few pounds a day. Now he would be glad to get just another 100 pounds on his best pumpkins. He figured he and his dad still had five really nice ones. And if they could get five entries weighing over 1,200 pounds apiece to the scale, that would be nothing to sneeze at. "I don't know if anybody's ever done that before," Ron said.
At this point, Ron and Dick still had seven pumpkins on the vine. One was on the 1068 plant that had lost its stump to disease earlier in the summer. Even without the stump, the pumpkin had steam-rolled along, slow, but still strong. Now it was one of their biggest. Several of the other plants that had escaped disease were doing better than anything else Dick or Ron had ever grown. A couple of the 1068s were measuring more than 1,200 pounds, another was in the 1,100s, another was over 1,000. As the weigh-offs began, Ron and Dick would have to begin deciding which pumpkins they would each enter at the different contests. They were ending the season with enough good pumpkins that they would each have one to enter at the biggest weigh-offs, though that would mean they'd compete with each other. With the best of their crop, Ron hoped to have a shot at winning his club's weigh-off at Frerich's Farm, and maybe even winning Topsfield. The rest he and his father would take to other local weigh-offs.
On September 6, the Wallaces cut their first pumpkin from the vine. As of that week, their 1354 Checkon was the runt of the crop, measuring just 790 pounds. It had been pollinated later than the others and had never really taken off. So when the Bethlehem Fair arrived on the calendar, Dick decided to take their Checkon pumpkin there. Joe Jutras took a pumpkin from his patch and went along. It would be a trial run for the season's upcoming weigh-offs.
Ron and Dick were trying to tune out the hubbub over who had what and to focus on their own pumpkins, but they did want to keep track of how the 1068s planted by other growers were doing. Though a great many had bitten the dust, at the end of August, J. D. Megchelsen had set a new record at the Alaska State Fair with a 1068. He'd met his goal to grow the first 1,000-pounder in Alaska, winning the top prize at the fair with a 1,019-pound pumpkin.
Dick and Ron had heard from a grower named Buddy Conley in southern Ohio who had a big 1068 going in his patch. And word was filtering out about Ed Hemphill's 1068 in Canada. It was a monster, people said. The pumpkin was huge and high and round, but looked solid as concrete, with the cantalouping veins that usually signaled a heavy pumpkin. The ribs had forked along one side, giving it the asymmetrical look of two pumpkins that had been welded together. Ed Hemphill wasn't wired into the digital age, so another Canadian grower had snapped a picture and e-mailed it to Dick and Ron. "That's the most impressive thing I've ever seen," said Ron. A flash of envy rippled through him, and something else. That was the seed he'd sent at the last minute last spring. What if it was the seed—the seed out of all others destined to grow the next world record? The seed destined to break 1,500 pounds. And he'd given it away at the last minute.
But Ron couldn't let himself think that way. He and his dad had had five shots at the 1068 that year. If that wasn't enough, so be it. Ron was happy for Hemphill. "I'm excited for him, and I'm excited for Buddy Conley; I'm excited for Peter Rondeau; I'm excited for me. I'm excited for anybody who's going to grow a personal best this year."
Besides, it wasn't just the 1068 that might pop a world record. They'd started to hear about some other monsters coming on. There was one in New York estimated at 1,500 pounds, one in Washington and one in Oregon. There were at least two in Ohio, including Conley's, with potential. And they still had another month before the big weigh-offs. Who knew what would happen in a month.
"Everybody can talk—who's got this and who's got that," Ron said. "It's the ones that aren't talking you have to worry about."
It had taken Ed Hemphill about a week to snap out of his funk when he lost his best pumpkin after the New Hampshire tour. "That was a big letdown," he said. But as soon as he took a better look at the one pumpkin left in his patch, his 1068, his spirits rallied. "It was a very backward plant," Hemphill said. "I had no hopes for it in the world. It was the poorest plant I'd ever had. Slow, slow. It was riding two weeks behind all the other plants putting on foliage. I only kept it because I had lots of room there for it and nothing else to take its place." By the time the New Hampshire tour had rolled around, it was measuring less than 900 pounds, compared to the 1,100 pounds of his big one.
Then the 1068 took off running. For seven days, it averaged 49 pounds a day. Hemphill looked at it with new eyes. It was getting really big, he realized. It was a pumpkin with potential. But then he started to worry himself sick it was going to split like the others. He woke up each morning in early September and hustled out to the patch beside his house at first light. The weather was chilly, but that 1068 had an uncanny ability to keep growing even when it was cool. He had it swathed in wool blankets—two sewn together and another one across the top of those. He pulled the blankets away each morning with his heart in his throat. But so far, the pumpkin had held together.
The OTT measurements on Hemphill's 1068 now totaled 403 inches, which put it at 1,367 pounds. Lately, the growth had slowed way down. It was nearly done, but still moving. Hemphill was banking on it going at least 10 percent heavier than the estimate. "That's just my own thinking," he said. "You talk to most pumpkin growers and they think I'm a little bit out to lunch. But we're going to find out, if it holds together until October 7."
If. That was the word that haunted every giant-pumpkin grower at this time of year, and it was haunting Hemphill in a big way. At night, he lay there thinking about it. "Sometimes the damn thing wakes me up," he confessed. "It's a lot of stress when you know you could possibly have the best one. It's going to be a long four weeks."
Hemphill was sure he was going to break the 1,500-pound barrier. With a whopper like that, he decided he would make the 18hour drive on October 7 to the Port Elgin Pumpkinfest weigh-off, the biggest, most prestigious weigh-off in Canada. That was where Canadian Al Eaton had weighed his 1,446-pound world-record winner in 2004.
"Yup, I'm going to Port Elgin," Hemphill said. "I'm going up where the lights are bright. If it holds together."
The Wallaces' 1354 Checkon had shocked everyone by weighing 23 percent heavier than expected at the Bethlehem Fair on September 8. The pumpkin's estimated weight was 790 pounds, but it racked up 977 pounds on the scale. The Wallaces had won first place, beating the old fair record by 200 pounds. Joe's pumpkin had done well too, coming in second at 901 pounds.
It was just a small fair, bu
t the heavier-than-expected weights seemed like a good omen. "It's always nice to get a win," said Ron. "I don't care if it's a 4-H fair."
The days were ticking by with no further disasters in the Wallace patch. The peak season at the country club was winding down. Banquet business remained brisk, but golf course traffic was lighter and the pool had closed after Labor Day—that was a big headache out of the way for Ron. Work had slowed way down in the pumpkin patch too. Ron and his dad watered when it wasn't raining, sprayed on compost tea and fungicide from time to time, covered the pumpkins at night, and uncovered them in the morning. Other than that, it was watching and waiting and praying that nothing went wrong.
The weather had been crazy again in the past week, but in a good way. With the cool start to the month, Ron and Dick had resigned themselves to getting, at best, another ioo pounds in September. But then the weather had turned unusually warm and sunny. The pumpkins had revved back up a little for another growth spurt, putting on 50 pounds with the sunny days, and then slowing back down to a steady 5 or so pounds a day. "If I can put another fifty pounds on the pumpkins, I'll be happy," Ron said.
But with the days getting shorter, every pound was harder to come by. In fact, it was difficult to tell if the pumpkins were growing at all. They were so huge and lumpy and irregularly shaped now, that just a small shift in where the measuring tape ran over the pumpkin could mean losing an inch instead of gaining an inch. The plants continued to look ragged, so Ron was allowing some new vines to grow out a little to give the plants some fresh leaves to work with. He and his dad were worried about a couple of stems that looked like they might be starting to rot. So they set up fans on them every day to keep them dry.
