Deepest Winter

"Frost on the Pumpkin" is a well-worn turn of phrase in old-time Americana-speak. It's along the lines of "sitting in the cat-bird seat" or "Shiny as a new Penny." Frost on the pumpkin symbolizes the first steps of something ending, of something's death. A man's first few white hairs, for instance. Youthful vigour growing cold. A once-blazing love burying itself beneath so many countless layers...

We are well into February, which makes sense because "Frost" has been on the pumpkins so long that it's hard to remember a time before it was there. I pick one up every once in awhile, unsold and unwanted, and no matter how many times I see it I'm amazed by the fact that there's still green grass underneath. And I watch the neighbors' cattle nuzzling through the snow, realizing, of course there's something there for them to eat.

A February pumpkin is something to behold. Unseasonably warm December days falling into freezing nights stress the thing beyond what it's designed to handle. A younger pumpkin, maybe, but it's small. It has excess energy to burn, to store. An older one is swollen fat and needs every calorie it can get its hands on.

So the big gourd begins to die, decay. I think it's strange how it happens from the inside out, but Tara takes one look at me and she says "no, things definitely die on the inside first." Their outer shell keeps that all hidden for awhile, until wrinkles start to form, and the thing shrivels. Crumbles. Dies.

If only the pumpkin were as resourceful as the cattle. I guess the lesson is, no matter how cold, how deep the snow, keep looking deeper. Something's down there, to nourish you through the night.