We decided to take advantage of the warm weather and get pumpkins last weekend. Even though she'll never remember it, we wanted Allison's first trip to be special, so we drove out of town to a farm that offers hay rides to a patch where you can pick your own.
When we got there, it was closed. On a Sunday. Three weeks before Halloween.
PRIME TIME TO GET A PUMPKIN, PEOPLE.
Jerry quietly turned the car around, and I noticed his knuckles were turning a subtle shade of white while clenched around the steering wheel.
"Screw them and their crappy hay rides," I said. "Who wants to sit on that scratchy crap anyway?"
"Shh ... I'm counting to 50," Jerry said with a hint of a smirk.
"Because 10 isn't high enough?" I asked.
But despite the setback, central Pennsylvania is full of farms. Pumpkin and otherwise. We knew of at least three others to try and the drive on the winding back roads was kind of nice -- especially with all of the fall colors.
"We're leaf peeping," I said. "I bet people in other parts of the country would kill to see entire mountains covered in color like this."
Fortunately, the second farm we tried was open and full of people. Probably the same ones who would've been on our hay ride if the other place had been open, but who's counting?
Then she found two that were just right.
And she refused to let go.
"Um, excuse me? Dad? Where are my pumpkins?"
Although, a little hard to crawl and carry at the same time.
"This is hard."
"AW! Who farted?"
Yeah, I'm so mature. But we had a great time. And even better? It's been a week and our flowers aren't even dead yet. Probably because I walked out to get the mail a few days ago while I had a glass of water in my hand and I decided to dump the rest on them.
They must thrive on good intentions.