Last fall, my Mom took Felix to her local garden store to pick out his Halloween Pumpkin.
Yes. I know
he's wearing the fire helmet backwards. He wasn't yet two. So?
So, when I asked him if he wanted to cut out a face for his jack-o-lantern, he looked at me as though I'd suggested lopping off one of his limbs.
"I don't WANT you to cut it!" he yelled, indignant.
Needless to say, we didn't have a jack-o-lantern, which was okay, since we trick-or-treated with friends two towns over, and Mark would never leave a lit candle on our front porch. He's the
An uncut pumpkin will keep nicely on a front porch as November arrives in New England and the temperatures drop. Ours stayed right where it was through the first snows of December, into frigid January, until Mark plopped it in an adjacent plant pot so its eventual decomposition wouldn't stain the mahogany decking on the front porch.
And there it sat. Until I moved the whole pot to the backyard gate, intending to compost the contents and recycle the cracked plastic pot, in early April. Two weeks ago, I noticed that a small, fuzzy pumpkin leaf was sprouting from the ruins.
Two days ago, I saw that a full fledged pumpkin plant was living in the pot.
Today, it has a proper home.
So the cycle can continue...
Labels: Laissez-Faire Living, Suburban Eden