Slimy Pumpkin Strands

I turned to James. “Do you want a happy pumpkin or a scary one?”

“Um, happy.” James never hesitated.

I scraped the inside of the pumpkin, cut the face and carved the final details. A jack-o’-lantern with a cheerful demeanor.

“How about you, Ian?” I already knew the answer, but they both needed the question as part of the Halloween ritual. “Do you want a scary one or a happy one?”

Ian drew out the word in wavering tones. “Sca-aaa-rrr-yyy.”

I stuck my arm into the second pumpkin and applied a fresh layer of slimy, pumpkin threads to my already sticky arm. The feeling isn’t pleasant, but I know why I’ve endured it for more than 40 Halloweens.

I didn’t carve my first pumpkin until after I was married, and I did almost everything wrong. The knife was too big, I nearly made the lid wrong and I had nothing to scrape all the inside fibers. When I finally carved the face, it was way too small.

I persevered and overcame my rookie ineptitude. I sat Jack out on the air conditioner of our second-floor apartment balcony, easily visible from the distant road. But, the damp, windy night didn’t cooperate, and I had to return several times to relight the candle. Each time, my frustration increased.

I stepped out one more time to relight the candle, but something happened. Just before I closed the door, I heard two pairs of young feet cutting through the apartment grounds. And I heard voices.

“Hey, look at that pumpkin.”

“Cool!”

My face lit up like the pumpkin’s. Oh, yeah. Forty years? All worthwhile.

I lit the two finished pumpkins, then turned to the boys. “Hit the lights.”

The candles grew brighter. The faces glowed, orange and gold.

James and Ian spoke in unison. “Cool!”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.