An essay by Earl Tumbleweather
Well, I’ll tell you plain: I ain’t never seen a pumpkin like that before.
Been farmin’ near all my life. Planted more seeds than I’ve had hot dinners. Pumpkins come up like they always do — quiet, heavy, sittin’ still, waitin’ for harvest like honest produce oughta. But this one? This one’s different.
It didn’t wait. Didn’t need no hand to pick it. Just popped itself off the vine and went marchin’ off across the field like it had somewhere more important to be. Head full o’ sunflowers, strutting like it’s runnin’ for office. Wouldn’t look me in the eye — not that it has eyes, but somehow I felt it. That look. Like I was the fool for expectin’ it to end up in a pie.
Now I ain’t one to argue with a vegetable. You grow, I pick, we all know the deal. That’s the order of things. But this pumpkin? No sir. It’s got no interest in roastin’ or bakin’ or sittin’ pretty on a porch. It’s got ideas. Too many for a gourd, if you ask me.
What’s it tryin’ to prove, anyway? That it don’t need us? That it can live wild and free, like some kind of leafy outlaw? That ain’t how gardens work. That ain’t how life works. You don’t just pull yourself up by the roots and call it freedom.
Still… there’s somethin’ about it. Can’t lie. I watched it disappear into the fog, sunflower petals catchin’ the light like a halo, and I thought — well heck. Maybe it does know somethin’ I don’t.
But I’ll say this: if the rest of the crop starts gettin’ ideas, I’m switchin’ to gravel.