Vandals

Last night, as Tara and I slept off a hard day's work, someone used our pumpkin patch as a four-wheeling course, leaving huge ruts in the mud, smashing half of my favorite "New England Pie" pumpkins, and tearing out vines. Which means the Baby Pam's will have to be harvested earlier than is ideal. Dottie Anderson will be disappointed (although I think her family wouldn't mind if she switched to "Cinderellas" this thanksgiving; they were untouched!).

 Tara keeps up with the kitchen trends, so I surveyed the damage with a poured-over coffee in my hand, completely in shock. Every bit of damage was another dollar short on the bank payment, another hour of labor spent not harvesting pumpkins, but throwing them away. I tried to decide whether the ruts were deep enough to warrant re-working the soil, or if it could wait until the end of the season. I started piling up the New Englands that survived, each as precious to me as a Spanish Galleon.

Even Luke the Labrador, indomitable spirit that he is, sensed that something was wrong. He looked up at me in that way that only dogs can, as if to ask "Everything's OK, right?" Well, Luke, I'm not so sure this time. Steve at the insurance agency will have to take a look, maybe those premiums will finally pay off.

But then Tara came out, and she was hopping mad. "Who could do something like this?" she was saying, interrupting the quiet that had been balancing me. "They ought to be shot." And then she asked why I didn't lock the gates, like she'd asked me to. Why did I think tree-rows could really work as fences (forgetting how pretty she used to think they were). She asked me what I was going to do about the situation, but expectantly, as if I'd have an answer right then.

I said I was going to call Steve, but when I pulled out my cell phone, there was a text on it. From Ever Parmenter.  Neighbor Stu's young wife, who's been helping with the markets. "This weekend was wonderful. Even if I couldn't keep the flowers."  And I looked up at Tara and realized that I was the one responsible for being the balance. I had to be the quiet.

So I put my phone away and told Tara "I'll call Steve, but not right now." And I asked her to make me another pour-over, and as we walked back towards the house I reminded her of our first "date", in high school, taking my rusty old truck through Tom Anderson's grazing fields. She almost argued, but then she started to smile. She put her head on my shoulder, where it just fits, and I put my arm around her. Luke the Labrador bounded in front of us, his worries gone, playful again.