My seven-year-old and I arrive at our traditional pumpkin patch. She picks out a huge, tall monstrosity. I pay and we heft it together. It’s heavier than expected. We both stubbornly decline assistance. We laugh as we struggle until we agree to a break, carefully lowering the sacred pumpkin to the sidewalk, where we collapse in hysteria. I pee on myself a little. We ignore the stares of others while we shriek and roll. We recover enough to lug it to the car. I suggest next time we should get a cart. What fun would that be, Mom?
Elizabeth Fenley now lives in her Joyfully Empty Nest but always returns to the pumpkin patch with her daughter, 22, laughing about it every time.