“We’re going to the pumpkin patch…we’re going to the pumpkin patch…” The voices of excited children ring through the minivan. And who can blame them?
It is a late October Sunday afternoon in suburban St. Louis, Missouri. My daughter, sonin law, seven-year-old Natalie and almost-three-year old twins, Cameryn and Colin, and Grandma Joan (that would be me), all carefully seat-belted in the minivan, are hurtling down the freeway towards Rombach’s Pumpkin Patch.
Going to pick out your own pumpkin has become an extremely popular October event. It isn’t just about the pumpkin: it’s about apple cider and spook houses, pony rides, face painting and playgrounds. We are fresh and dewy and bright with anticipation and hardly even notice the ever-thickening traffic.
But as we slow to a crawl and then to a stop, we realize the long traffic line, of which we are a part, is headed exactly where we are— the pumpkin patch. Betsy, Steve and I exchange glances. This is unbelievable. Seems everybody in St. Louis is heading towards Rombach’s Pumpkin Patch.
“Let’s get some lunch first and come back later,” one of us suggests.
“Yay,” answer the twins. “Going” anywhere appeals to them.
Seven-year-old Natalie has had more experience with life and looks apprehensive. “Are you sure we’re coming back?”
We promise that we will. Son-in-law Steve pulls the car out of line and we head for Steak and Shake. An hour later, feeling stuffed to the gills, we return to the pumpkin patch turnoff, eager to reach our destination.
But the traffic line hasn’t decreased in size. It has, in fact, multiplied. By leaps and bounds. A line of cars stretching to infinity lies ahead. This could take a long time, a very long time. We sit in the sweltering sun and, anticipating the wait ahead, it seems only natural to talk again of coming back another day.
As we grownups discuss the possibility, we fail to see that Natalie’s eyes have filled with tears. Finally Steve notices and we all exchange glances. I vividly recall several childhood disappointments, as must have Betsy and Steve. We stop talking about quitting.
“We will go to the pumpkin patch,” Steve announces and Natalie’s tears disappear, so we spend the next 45 minutes crawling to our destination.
When we finally park in the nearby field where two traffic directors have guided us, we spill out of the vehicle and head for the “patch.”
Rombach’s Pumpkin Patch doesn’t disappoint. Pumpkins dominate the landscape, displayed in pyramids, decorating food stands and haunted houses. They nestle near the pony ride corral and cover the ground in for-sale batches. Giant pumpkins priced at $50.00 haphazardly sprawl in a nearby field.
Babies cry, toddlers stumble, dogs bark and sniff. Older children jump and skip, and most parents appear good-natured or pretend to be. Our little family group doesn’t let the throngs of people stop us. We go about our business, picking out three nice pumpkins and partaking in various spooky haunted house experiences.
True, the twins probably would have been just as happy on a swingset anywhere, but they enthusiastically pick out individual pumpkins and climb on tractors and wagons set out for just such activity. Natalie tells me the haunted house is kind of cheesy, but her eyes shine. She’s having a great time.
Finally, Colin slips in a mud puddle, everyone looks tired, and it’s time to go. As we walk through the exit and pay for the pumpkins, I take a last look at the panorama behind. The sky is cobalt blue, the pumpkins are vivid orange and the crowds look especially festive against the autumn backdrop of yellow and red trees. It’s been a good day to go to the pumpkin patch.
And the best part—we find a back route home so avoid the miles-long traffic line leading out of the pumpkin patch to the freeway.
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