Holding on to pretty much everything

A few years back, on the next-to-last day of summer, I bought a pumpkin from a farmer I know. I was drawn to it because it was different. A muted blue-gray, reminiscent of a Hubbard squash without warts, it had a pleasing shape. It had just been harvested, so the grower suggested I put it in a warm, dry place to cure for a few days. I stashed it in our shed and carried on with living. A month later, right before Halloween, I remembered the sequestered squash and panicked. Surely my blue baby had turned to a pulpy disaster in storage!

This wasn’t melodrama; I was working off the memory of former squishy-squash experiences. One especially notable event began when I discovered a glass of white wine in the cupboard. When I asked my husband why he’d put it there, he gave me one of those endearing looks reserved for spouses who have opened their pie holes without first checking for brain activity. That we almost always drink red wine hit me a second or two before I recalled stowing a wannabe jack-o-lantern on top of that same cupboard weeks earlier. It made good sense. Until I forgot about it.

Out of sight, in the warmest place in the house, the thing had basically liquified, releasing a pale consommé into and down the back of the cherry, Shaker-style cabinet. The one, little-used glass near the top caught some of the exudate, but the majority slipped down, silently, to the bottommost shelf. Remarkably, I would not be the one to deal with the aftermath. I dashed off to some other obligation, leaving my magnanimous man to work a cleaning miracle while I was gone. True love – that’s the only explanation I can offer for his willingness to rescue me from that blunder.

Thus, having no reason to expect my latest pumpkin-headed move to end differently, I let out a joyful squeal when, instead, I found my blue squash still intact and as lovely as I remembered it. I brought it to our front steps, partnered it with a traditional, orange pumpkin, some potted purple pansies, and a claret chrysanthemum. It was a bright, quirky collection suited to us and the season.

Fall progressed. Thanksgiving came and went. Had history played on repeat as usual, the pumpkins would have languished outside until they froze, becoming good for nothing other than compost and next year’s random garden progeny. But, the times, they were a’changing. Our older offspring was on the cusp of launching a new life 2,000 miles away, drawing my attention to our traditions and engendering an incredible urge to hold on to pretty much everything.

For the first time in our family history, we installed Christmas immediately after Thanksgiving: the fresh tree from a family-owned store up the street, our hand-me-down nativity set, with the blonde, blue-eyed Mary and baby Jesus, on the table in the corner. The squashes were now completely out of step with the holiday decor, but I couldn’t imagine parting with them. I brought them inside, set them on the landing, tucked greenery and pinecones around them, and willed them into a purposeful winter.

We planned and organized. We celebrated and hugged. We packed the car and bid farewell. Soon, we thanked the gods of modern technology for bestowing Yuletide togetherness upon us, even though we couldn’t be together, and we said hello to a new chapter.

The house grew more quiet than ever. The evergreens became a fire hazard. It was time to get back to work. We boxed up Christmas earlier than usual. I moved the pumpkins to the kitchen table, where they looked as awkward and hapless as I now felt. Within a week, the orange one gave up, tilting over, a clear sign of bottom failure. I carried it to the compost pile. The blue one, though, still so much the same as it had been, demanded something more.

And so it was, four months to the day from when I brought it home, that I gave it what it seemed to deserve most. It became food! We downed bowls of spectacular vegetarian curry. I put bags of edible gold in our freezer. The roasted seeds were curiously chewy and satisfying. It was bountiful and delicious.

A humble squash hardly seems a worthy candidate for so much care-giving, but I don’t believe that memories require merit. The stories we keep are a place to put the experiences that transform us. Remembering is our opportunity to hold on to anything our heart desires.

~Elizabeth