Day 109, September 4, 2010

The Day After Yesterday. Yep, I was right. Home Depot was the prime sponsor, I believe for Hurricane Earl. Ready, we were. Apparently, though, Earl's handlers decided our economy could not handle the rigors of a virile Earl. Instead he postured, playing for the cameras and the commentators... right up to the last minute.

Which leads us to the morning. Cool and pre-autumn. Deb and I have decided to sell our pumpkins from the front yard of the house, which means most of this windy Saturday is dedicated to harvesting pumpkins.

We load about thirty-five pumpkins into the back of the truck. We pick tomatoes, tomatillos, and the last of the melons. Harvesting pumpkins is really difficult. Apart from their weight, there's the constant anxiety of trampling an intricate network of vines which have become brittle, and are still capable of generating new pumpkins. I believe that once the pumpkin has grown out, and has reached maturity, it is less dependent on the vine, than on natural ripening: the fascinating journey to orange. It likely no longer needs its umbilical cord, but the more I step on the vine, the less likely I am to see new pumpkins this late in the season.

Neither of my sons have ever spent much time in the garden, mostly because they are dedicated sailors. In fact, Jay, my eighteen-year-old has never been to the farm. This morning, though, he wakes up, excited about a sailboat race around Fishers Island. He steps outside, stretches his arms, admiring the post-Earl morning. He feels the strong breeze, and says, "This is going to be an amazing race."

"Really. Why?" I ask.

"We're going to go so fast."

"Whatcha sailing?"

"A Mumm 30."

A Mumm 30 is an amazing boat. Trust me.

"Is the wind out of the west," he asks.

"Yep. Just look at the boats in the river," I tell him. "See their bows pointing west?"

"Is that how you do it, Dad?" he asks, sarcastically.

On the other hand, Debbie and I spend the entire afternoon racing around the garden, dealing with dying plants, brittle vines, and reminiscences of an amazing season. Every now and then, I hear muffled curses because Deb's Purple Cherokee Tomatoes have been chosen by a ground hog as his favorite fruit snack. The rain has caused hundreds of tomatoes to swell and split, and many pumpkin stems have to be picked soft, to hopefully dry. Our garden has matured. It is now going to seed. The sunflowers, some ten-feet tall, now bow, faded, and battered by birds.

Back home, I'm unloading pumpkins when my friend, Tim, walks by, stops, and says, "Deb was remarking it's too early for pumpkins." Then he tells me his wife decided, 'Maybe not if Ben has them for sale in his yard.'

We laugh, then Tim tells me that his yacht club lost a member, a few hours ago, in the Fishers Island Race. Instantly, I ask who? thinking about my two sons who were out there.

"Wilkinson... Don Wilkinson," he tells me without any detail.

"I think Jay was on board with him," and suddenly I am unable to speak, and the fun I'm having with my pumpkins feels trivial, a bit cavalier.

Later, I hear that Jay acted calm and that he helped bring focus to the panicked boat as the accident unfolded. I heard he spent the rest of the day with Don's son. This is a family I have always liked, and my heart is sad thinking about them and the grief this day has caused. At the same time, Don was a fantastic sailor, and I am sure it will not be lost on those who knew him, that he went away doing what he loved to do best.

In the end, I am glad that the pumpkins are all around me. As the day turns to evening, Lilly Hinckley appears on the scene, inspecting each pumpkin. Eventually she decides to gnaw on a moist stem, a wonderful distraction. Comic relief when I most need it. My friend Kersten stops by to buy a few pumpkins, and she, Debbie and I have fun talking and unloading the truck. At the same time, my stomach has a dull feeling, and we never bother to make dinner.

Before we watch a movie, though, I notice a person in the front yard, and she wants to buy three pumpkins in the dark.

After she leaves, Deb and I count up our day's proceeds. We made $41.00 on our first day. Sam stops by, hears us giggling over our ill-got gains, and reminds us that we earned a small fortune.

"That's four meals, where I come from."

Indeed, Sam is right. Yet, I cannot help thinking, on this otherwise beautiful and blustery day after Earl's no show... that he ended up making it here with a vengeance.

With a gasp of a dying storm, I lost a friend.