I don't know where we used to get our pumpkins when I was a kid, what I do remember is how excited we were when they arrived in our kitchen, and how anxious we were to get to carve them, and the way the house smelled after we had roasted the seeds. The part of town where we lived growing up was not favorable, because of this (and because it was "wrong") we were never allowed to go trick-or-treating, so for us, the carving of the pumpkin was the highlight of the harvest season.
There it sat, on the cold metal table. The center piece; untouched for weeks. Finally, it's day had arrived. My brother and I could barely contain our excitement as we whispered excitedly to one another over our cereal bowls. This was the day!! We had only to make it through eight excruciatingly long hours of school, and then, once home, our tiny little hands would set madly to work, creating our masterpiece.
And then, there we were, elbow deep in pumpkin guts, scooping and clawing and scraping at it's soul. At that point we were unconcerned with the delicious pumpkin pies, pumpkin smoothies, and pumpkin seeds that would soon fill our bellies and serve as late night treats by the fire. We only wanted it out of our way. So that our tiny little knives could cut away at the pumkin's flesh as our hands had done it's soul.
If these were not the days before one could purchase a cut out of fancy design for their pumpkin, my brother and I had surely never seen such a thing. There were no quick-assemble kits, no temporary tattoo-like designs to carve from. These were the days when an artist's work came from a paring knife and a permanent marker. And I, charged with the task of design work this particular year, sat cross-legged atop the table; my brow furrowed down, and two little bite marks forming on my lower lip from fierce concentration. The marker hovering closely over the soon to be face of our new friend.
Mine was an eye of symmetry and balance, if not of originality. With the carving skills of my brother, this creature would soon see the starry night through triangle eyes and laugh at jokes unheard through a gap toothed grin.
It took only few short hours to turn a normal, everyday gourd into a guardian of the night. But those hours held joy and pleasure immeasurable. Once complete, we sat with our legs and feet dangling idly off the front porch swing; the pumpkin-man between us. His life would be short-lived, but that didn't matter. For us, it was his creation, not his demise, that would be burned forever into our memories. And in that moment we were gods, creators of a new being, nothing could defeat us. How were we to know, my brother and I, what would lie ahead and what these moments would some day mean?
