Just Another Day at the Farm

It’s fall. A beautiful, warm day at the pumpkin farm. The brilliant blue sky fills in the background behind a row of pines, green as ever. A red-roofed pavilion houses displays of Indian corn, boxes of grotesque gourds, and parents with little ones. A maple tree, tall and bent a little, shows off orange leaves, not to be outdone by the profusion below. The orange of the pumpkins explodes against brown dirt and yellow hay.

It’s our second annual visit with her grandparents. She’s two this time and can walk and even run among the misshapen, mutant-looking pumpkins. She’s looking at the camera with eyes squinting in the late morning sunlight. Light bounces off long blond hair as she stands next to a group of the largest pumpkins, their shadows taller than she is. Her hands are clasped together uneasily, plump little fingers gripping themselves. The blue of her shirt, her plaid overalls, even her eyes, reflects the blue above her. Her toddler tennis shoes are too white but won’t be for long. She’s half-smiling, unsure and even a little confused. “What are these things, Mama? Will they get me?”

The photo hangs on my inspiration board—a memory of a day filled with many types of beauty.