Balloons and Pumpkins

I don’t know where we used to get our pumpkins when I was a kid.  The field probably wasn’t even close to the Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, but still, I’ve made the connection that it was. Maybe we got our pumpkins on the same day Mom and Daddy took us to the Fiesta, I don’t know.  These events were at least closely related: they both signified fall for us.  But, for the sake of the story, we’d go to the Fiesta and pick our pumpkins on the same day, every year. 

 

Mom would help me put on my little jeans with the purple flower patches on the back pockets.  However, she reminded me, I was old enough to put on my own shoes, so I’d struggle with them while my eyes were glued to Sesame Street.  Then Momma would chastise me gently for trying to sneak out without my jacket.  And someone, probably Grandma would stuff my slightly chubby arms through the purple holes and zip it up to my chin.  That’s when I would detect the familiar smell—it was of other jackets in the closet, mixed with winter and cold, and a little dog hair and dust.  And Grandpa’s spearmint Certs—the ones he always left in his front pocket.  Koby would proceed to totter over to me in his puffy blue jacket, revealing his tiny white teeth below a few freckles on his full cheeks. 

 

We’d get in the old brown Honda; it wasn’t that far.  Out in the valley, my nose got a bit pink and it was nippy, but I didn’t even notice.  (I still see it in the pictures—Dad’s holding Koby in the crook of his arm, kneeling next to me and looking at me.  I have my hand on his shoulder, that mischievous smile on my face, my light brown hair in a loose ponytail.)  Some balloons were still on the ground in wrinkles, and Dad would take us around to those so we could look in at the basket and equipment.  Mr. Peanut seemed bigger than a house up in the air, tilting his hat to me and winking.  Garfield was huge and orange and looked bored.  I loved all the colors, the gusts of fire and noise and air blowing upward.  To me, there were a million balloons above us.  

 

Then we’d get hot chocolate.  It left those crusty marks on the corners of Koby’s mouth.  We went in the field, laden with pumpkins as far as I could see.  There was a barn on the top of the hill; I heard horses in there.  Dad had taught me how to “rap” or knock on vegetables in the garden to see if they were ripe; I wanted to find ones that were my size.  He would humor me and take a little one home for me. 

 

After we drew our designs for the pumpkins, Dad cut them out and put a candle inside.  They’d go outside with his luminarios, which were dotted all the way up the driveway.  I remember the smell of wax and baking pumpkin seeds.