Pumpkins: the best jackpot
There I was, seven years old and the only one potty trained, playing bingo at a nursing home. I knew I had to play my cards right if I wanted the coveted prize, the leftover pumpkins used to decorate for Halloween.
These lackadaisical, bifocal-wearing old people were no match for my bingo skills. Lois began to call the final number.
“Come on, come on, Lois!” I whispered feverishly to myself.
Then she called out the winning number, my number, and that’s how I became a bingo slayer. That pumpkin was mine!
“Time to go!” Grandma Peg hollered.
We were there to visit another “grandma.” Neither of these ladies were my actual grandmother, but when you’re little, everyone with blue hair and wrinkles is either a grandma, or a raisin with lint.
I was so thrilled to have this new plump orange friend to share my time with.
I began dreaming of all the different faces I could paint on him, the stories we would read, the tea parties we would enjoy.
Most importantly, I pictured how much fun it would be to smash him on the pavement when Mom said he was too smelly.
Instead, it was my pumpkin of a day that was smashed.
“Hand it over,” Grandma Peg said sternly.
What on earth could this lady want to do with my pumpkin? What faces does she think she can draw that could be anywhere near as fun as mine? I reluctantly handed my new pal over with tears in my eyes.
We arrived at the house only to discover it was nap time.
Nap time and goulash were two things that could send me over the edge, and Grandma Peg was an expert at implementing both.
I snuck out of the nap time room and crept into the kitchen to find a horrifying happening. The butcher knife was out and Grandma Peg was hacking my bright orange friend to pieces. She didn’t even give him the honor of being smashed!
Just then, she did the unthinkable: she threw him in the oven.
Out of the corner of her bifocal lenses she caught me looking on in horror.
“Get back into that room!” she yelled as she went for the yard stick.
I darted for the room screaming bloody murder as I laid down on the bed.
I hugged my pillow and went into a heartbroken slumber.
I awoke to a delicious aroma leaking through my door.
I stepped out of the room and looked up at Grandma Peg. I knew right now was the perfect time to ask if I could get up from my nap, because she was submerged and smiling while reading one of her Harlequin romance novels.
“Yeah kid, and there’s a treat out for you on the table.”
And that was when I tried my first slice of pumpkin pie.
Maybe there’s better things to do with pumpkins that painting them or reading and drinking tea with the orange squash.
And I know for a fact that as fun as smashing pumpkins is, eating them in a pie crust is ten thousand times better.