My sister came home from college this past weekend, and what was first on her agenda?
A trip to the pumpkin patch.
So we traveled out to Belton to search among the dead vines and gourds for that perfect pumpkin.
I always approach the pumpkin patch with the same mindset as I have about camping. It sounds like a fun nature-y idea before hand, but once there, I always question why I came.
As we walk in, screaming children run around, jump on hay bales, and swing on the extra low swings.
It quickly becomes apparent that we are the oldest ‘kids’Â there. My sisters and I do not run around. We do not jump on the hay bales. We do try to swing, but our legs are too long.
Filled with Peter Pan-esque feelings, I thought about the good old days of picking out pumpkins when we were still in the socially acceptable and practiced age range.
I remembered the apple cider we drank, the corn mazes we got lost in, and the best pumpkins we found.
Those are nice memories, but I’m thankful that part of me doesn’t enjoy the pumpkin patch anymore. Otherwise if I absolutely, whole-heartedly loved it, I would try too hard to recreate those times.
Still, part of me feels obligated to continue on in this tradition, I suppose in Kathleen’s honor (She would hate it if we changed any of our long-held family traditions). I guess we’ll have to wait and see what happens next year and whether or not Kathleen’s fall break lines up with pumpkin picking time.
