The Great Pumpkin

We have an odd Thanksgiving toy/decoration/thing I didn’t know what to do with for years. It’s a soft-sided pumpkin house that unzips to reveal a scarecrow family of four plus pet turkey. RE hasn't played with dolls in ages and the poor pumpkin has been neglected year after year as I've put up fall decor. I saw it this year and loved it! It is obviously housing Greg, me, RE, Archer, and Lucy. We finally became the pumpkin toy! This is the best decoration ever! All those years of wanting a baby but secretly hoping it wouldn’t be a boy and now my boy is here and boy am I glad he was a boy. Boys are not turkeys. They are spunky and fast and delicious; they look at their mamas in a way that beats all else.

We bought a plot of land on the side of a mountain when I was pregnant. I told Greg I didn’t want to work on house plans during my last trimester or the newborn phase because I had waited years for them and wanted to savor them in the present. We slowly eased into designing a home. Having never done so we shot for the moon and included every whim and fancy ever desired. The Trapper Keeper I’d been stuffing with dream house ideas for a decade (take that, Pinterest, and yes, they still make Trapper Keepers) didn’t diminish the effect. Before we paid for structural and civil engineering on the dream plans we felt we should get a rough bid from some builders to make sure we were on the right track. Boy were we on the wrong track, unless that track was for billionaires.

After killing some whims, wounding some fancies, and settling for a half-finished basement we came to our senses and paid the architect for affordable final plans. With a huge roll of officially stamped blueprints we began the quest for bids.

I have deep roots in my current house and adverse reactions to change so it didn’t bother me in the slightest to be ignored by busy builders all summer. We did meet with one guy whose bid made me wonder if it might be more plausible to just live in a pumpkin with a pet turkey.

The thing is, in the meantime I’ve been soaking up my life at 416 North because I’m not sure when it’s going to end. I assume every season will be the last. The last time I watch cartoon Ichabod and make BBQ chicken pizza (WITH the cilantro, McBrides) while trick-or-treaters ding the doorbell. The last time I rake my lilac leaves on Thanksgiving morning...from the bucket-sized lilac bush we planted on our 5th anniversary that now covers RE’s 2nd story bedroom window. The last time I’ll squeeze an Ault's alpine fir in our tiny parlor with a labyrinth of sofas around it.

I’ve even started to get sappy about my outdoor trees.

Our Colorado blue spruce was a housewarming gift from my parents in 1999. It was 8’ tall and the eighth foot was a single spike. It is currently 20 feet tall; Greg still races out to smell it when rain falls from our dry Utah sky. I rub the new growth between my fingers each spring; it is soft like a Pink Pet eraser and and bluer than a Smurf. It has been slow growing, solid, sturdy, and noble. Just like Greg.

We planted a pear tree for Greg’s birthday the following year (it was such a relief to not buy him fishing junk). It dressed my kitchen window and masked State Street effortlessly. We got a bird book to identify the many species seen on the branches. (I love Western Tanagers!) Yesterday, for the first time in 16 years, I saw two quail in my pear tree. Quail, like partridges, have plumes. I think it’s the closest I’ll ever get to a partridge in a pear tree! Robins swallow pear berries whole and I thank them for picking the tree clean by Christmas. Yes, pear tree smells like pooberry in the spring but I forgive her because she also pops popcorn. Once we took a fall trip and I specifically prayed to not miss the changing of her color guards.

Pink thundercloud plum was planted in honor of our first child and daughter’s birth in 2001. Plum’s razzle-dazzle, pinkalicious mass blocks the westerly sunset from melting the façade of our home. The day plum blooms she wins Mother Nature’s “Best of Show”. Plum always has a bird nest in her lower fork, low enough I can peek inside. The designer in me appreciates the autonomous color schemes God created; Robin’s egg blue, desaturated pink plum petals, and weathered brown twigs were surely the original shabby chic.

If this is how I feel about my trees imagine how I feel about my neighbors. The salt of the earth is unquestionably sprinkled on all the latitudes and longitudes but my life here has been perfectly seasoned. When I think about leaving the people who have become familiar to me I honestly lose it. I feel like I’m exchanging three square meals a day of soul food for a good view I'll look at all alone. Wah, wah, wah.

But to fear the next step is to lack faith. We know our lot is where we are supposed to go. It was years in waiting and years in the making; the way it unfolded made a beautiful shape clearly pointing to Draper.

I’ve loved everywhere I’ve ever lived, including Crown Apartments at BYU with its one functioning toilet, slow-draining sink, and bleached tiger shag carpet. Because of that rentable gem I found the guy I wanted to marry a hop, skip, and jump across the street.

I loved my tiny newlywed apartment with its microscopic, ventless bathroom. It was where Greg and I studied our majors on free couches while eating McFlurries from Freedom Blvd. It is also where we learned to not flock a Christmas tree indoors.

I have LURVED (lurve is greater than love) 416 North, although I almost threw up when we wrote our non-refundable $3K deposit check for this starter house. This house has been better than good to me. Its backyard pond and running stream have made a boxcar children dreamscape for my kids. Its ceilings have contained love, a few arguments, airborne grease droplets from frequent homemade chip-making, and lots of music pumped up with bass. It has welcomed two babies and two dogs, three of which I never thought I’d have and all of which have left smears on the front window. (In fact, I only washed off Max’s nose smears a year ago. After he died I couldn’t bear to wipe away the last proof of his existence. Oh, Max. He was my watchman on the tower. He would have eaten the mailman for me. Lucy, on the other hand, would lick a robber. She’s worthless in the protection department.)

I choose to believe our next home will be lurve-worthy; I just don’t know in what ways yet. I’ve made up my mind to love wherever I’m at and adopt Old Nauvoo’s motto: WHEN WE’RE HERE, WE’RE HERE. Our nest is best, no matter what tree it’s in. Home is the people inside the pumpkin, not the great pumpkin itself.

Photo of the cover of my 1st edition I Capture the Castle Frenchie gave me. It's also one of the letters "D" in my blog's logo.