Town in a Pumpkin Bash (4 page)

“There just isn’t much to do around here for a woman of my skills,” Maggie had lamented
that day in August, when the arrival of winter was still months away. “What am I going
to do?” She had tried to keep the conversation light, but her typical good humor was
failing her as the prospect of a long, lean season loomed.

“Well, we’ll just have to figure something out,” Candy had told her with all the optimism
she could muster. She’d been reading a book about the power of positive thinking and
she was determined to give it a try. “You know what? If we can’t find another job
for you, we’ll just have to create one.”

That made Maggie perk right up. “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. What do you have in mind?”

Candy thought about it a moment. “We’ll just have to figure out what your strengths
are and then build around that.”

“What an intriguing concept.” Maggie straightened in her chair, liking this idea more
all the time. “Which strengths do you think we should start with?”

“Let’s see.” Candy assessed her friend with a scrutinizing eye. “You’re good with
numbers, right? And you’re an excellent manager.”

“I like working outside,” Maggie put in, “and I’m pretty good with plants.”

“Plus you’re bright, personable, hardworking….”

“Well groomed…”

“You’re good with customers….”

“Self-motivated and organized…”

“You have a wonderful sense of humor….”

“And I can throw together a pretty mean lasagna in a jiffy!”

They made a list of all of Maggie’s attributes and another one of prospective jobs,
both existing and new ones, that might fit her skill set. They tried to think broadly,
even adding
lobsterman
to the initial list before scratching it off. “I tend to get seasick,” Maggie admitted,
“even in light chop.”

Over the next few days, they fanned out, looking into options around town. They checked
all the nurseries and farm suppliers in the area, for instance—all three of them—but
none were hiring. They caught wind of an opening with the town maintenance crew, but
it turned out to be a job for a Bobcat operator to help clear snow off the sidewalks
and streets over the winter. Maggie demurred. Ditto for a job as a bus driver for
the local school district. “Me on the roads this winter with a bus full of rambunctious
kids? I don’t think so.”

Creating a new job for her proved to be trickier than they thought. Which way to go?
Start her own organizing business? Or cleaning service? Collect empty soda cans by
the side of the road?

She considered becoming a private tutor, opening a senior-care business, and even
becoming a business coach or interior designer, but in the end it was Candy’s father,
Henry “Doc” Holliday, who made the suggestion that stuck, mostly because it was the
easiest idea to get started on, and matched her skill set perfectly.

“Why don’t you talk to Mr. Gumm about taking over that pumpkin patch of his?” Doc
said absently one afternoon while he was standing on the porch cradling an armful
of vegetables, including peppers, tomatoes, and onions, which he’d just picked in
the garden. He planned to make his famous spicy tomato sauce that evening.

Doc went on to say he’d overheard at the diner that Mr. Gumm was thinking about selling
a pumpkin patch he owned because he could no longer keep up with it, and it was starting
to fall into neglect. When Candy expressed an interest, Doc elaborated, though first
he ducked inside so he could set down the vegetables on the kitchen counter.

“Well, let’s see. From what I’ve heard, that piece of land has been in the Gumm family
for generations. They’ve grown other crops there, of course, like corns and beans,
but mostly they’ve utilized it as a pumpkin patch, because the soil’s rich and moist,
and it’s got good exposure to sun. They have two fields—Low Field and High Field—where
they plant different varieties. Connecticut Field pumpkins—those are the traditional
jack-o’-lanterns, you know—in Low Field, and more of those plus some heirlooms in
High Field. From what Mr. Gumm said, they just ran a simple u-pick operation, and
apparently made quite a bit of money at it over the years, when it was well managed—which
it hasn’t been for a long time. He talked about selling it, but I don’t think he’d
really ever part with it, since it’s family property.
But he’s clearly frustrated and doesn’t know what to do with it. Maybe there’s an
opportunity there, especially with this Pumpkin Bash thing coming up.”

That got their imaginations going. The “Pumpkin Bash thing,” as Doc referred to it,
was a relatively new event in town, supported and managed by a small yet energetic
group of local residents and business owners. The idea was to draw trick-or-treaters
and their families to the downtown area on Halloween night by keeping the stores open
late, handing out candy, and creating several large displays of lit jack-o’-lanterns
up and down the streets and in Town Park. Entrants for a giant pumpkin weigh-off contest
would also be on display, and there’d be a few food booths, kids’ games, and entertainment.

For someone with a pumpkin patch, it was, as Doc said, a golden opportunity—or more
accurately, Candy decided later, an
orange
one.

She talked it over with Maggie, who quickly latched onto the idea, deciding it was
a perfect fit. And she persuaded Candy to help her with it. “If we can make a few
thousand dollars each, that would go a long way over the winter, and give me time
to figure out my next long-term career move,” Maggie said at the time.

After agreeing to work the patch together, they approached Mr. Gumm, though Maggie,
who had worked at the hardware store and knew the elderly proprietor well, did most
of the talking, explaining how she and Candy would take over the patch, spruce up
the operations, use their business savvy to make it a profitable business again, and
share some of the proceeds with him.

He readily agreed, and after a round of handshakes to seal the deal, offered them
anything they needed, including the use of an old tractor he kept at an adjoining
property he owned, and any tools or materials from the hardware store—within reason,
of course.

And they’d delivered. Thanks to their efforts over the
past few months, the once-neglected pumpkin patch now thrived, thickly populated with
mature vines, their faded green leaves nearly the size of elephant ears, helping to
feed the still-burgeoning orange fruit that abundantly peppered the fields.

Mr. Gumm had been pleased with what he’d seen when he stopped by one day in mid-September
to walk the two fields with them. “My two grandsons and a few of their friends helped
get the fields ready for planting this year and got the seeds in the ground,” he told
them, wiping a handkerchief across his forehead, more from habit than the warmth of
the day. “Said they’d stick around to run it through harvesttime, but then one of
them headed off to Texas with his girlfriend, and the other got into a pretty good
school in New York, so here I was with this field I couldn’t manage. Good thing you
ladies came along with your idea. I’d’ve hated to see all this bounty go to waste.”

He turned, surveying the fields around them, finally pointing nowhere in particular.
“You might want to fertilize those vines with a little fish emulsion—got plenty of
that around here along the coast. I’ll see some gets out to you. And when you notice
pumpkins tipped over on their sides, set ’em up straight. That way they’ll flesh out
rounder and oranger and you’ll have better-looking fruit. Helps if you put a shingle
under each one too—keeps ’em up off the ground, so they look prettier, and the prettier
they are, the more you’ll sell. If I remember correctly, there’s a stack of them behind
the farm stand. Course, you’ll want to start clearing out some spots for your pumpkin
piles. Makes it easier for the customers if they can just pick up a few off the piles.
We used to keep them arranged by size. Easier to price that way.”

He’d given them a few more tips, and left the rest to them.

For the business end of the operation, they renovated the property’s small, dilapidated
farm stand at one corner of the pumpkin patch, modifying and expanding it to suit
their
needs. Ray Hutchins, the local handyman, added a wider, reinforced countertop and
put angled storage bins up front, so they had plenty of places to display pumpkins
of various sizes, plus squash, baskets of Indian corn, and assorted jars of homemade
blueberry jam, all with the decorative Blueberry Acres label attached, as well as
elegant jars of Coffin Farms honey, delivered by Marjorie Coffin herself. And on a
series of narrow tables off to one side, arrayed in bins and baskets, they’d set out
just-picked vegetables from their gardens, which were now deep into harvest. Today
they had late carrots and beets, potatoes, squashes, garlic, and onions. There were
also the last of the Macintosh apples from one of the local orchards, plus a few containers
of chrysanthemums.

Then, of course, there was the Pumpkin Hollow Haunted Hayride.

They’d had good crowds throughout the fall but wanted to end the season with a big
splash—and pocket a few extra dollars to help get them through the winter ahead. Earlier
in the month, Maggie had spotted an old hay wagon at the farm where they’d found the
tractor, which gave her the idea.

“You know, we should do a haunted hayride the last couple of weekends we’re open,”
she’d told Candy one morning while they were out at the patch. “We could set up a
few spooky displays, like tombstones and that sort of thing, then take people around
the pumpkin patch in the hay wagon, tell a few ghost stories, and send them merrily
on their way. Of course, we’d charge for the ride and remind them to pick up a few
pumpkins on their way home, as well as a couple of jars of jam and honey and such.
It could be a lot of fun, and it’d help us sweeten the profits before we close things
down. What do you think?”

“I think,” Candy had told her, “that you’d better brush up on your ghost stories,
because
I’m
going to drive the tractor, and
you’re
going to be the haunted hayride’s hostess with the mostest!”

It took them ten minutes to get the waiting crowd, which included several families
and a few seniors, settled on board the hay wagon.

As they climbed up a wooden step and onto the bed, the passengers all talked, laughed,
and smiled in anticipation, but the children were the most excited, chattering nonstop
with parents or with one another as they staked out the best places to sit for the
upcoming ride. In anticipation of Halloween, some had dressed in costume, so this
morning the hayride’s passengers included a short-statured nurse, a princess in pink,
a blue-caped superhero, and two zombies with ashen faces and dark eyes.

A few of the adults also wore some type of costume accessory, such as bunny ears or
alien antennae, and one portly gentleman chuckled as he climbed aboard dressed in
a bee costume. But most of the adults simply wore brightly colored hooded sweatshirts
or fleece vests, ball caps, rain jackets, and even a few scarves against the blustery
day,
though some braved the unsettled weather with nothing more than shirts and jeans,
and one shaggy-haired male teen had opted for cargo shorts and sandals, proving that
the weather in Maine rarely imposed itself upon the fashion trends of the younger
generation.

Maggie herself had been one of the first to climb up onto the bed of the wagon, so
she could help the passengers who needed assistance in getting seated. She and Candy
had placed bales of hay around the exterior sides of the wagon and spread an inches-thick
layer of hay across the bed as well to provide relatively comfortable seating.

Candy stationed herself on the ground at the back of the wagon and did a quick head
count. Twenty-two passengers in all—close to the wagon’s limit. They preferred to
keep occupancy under twenty-five, though on one run the previous weekend, they’d managed
to squeeze in nearly thirty. But they both felt that was pushing the limits of safety
and comfort.

As the passengers passed by her to climb up onto the wagon, Candy took their tickets
and exchanged pleasantries with many of them. They’d sold the hayride tickets earlier
at the farm stand, rather than here at the ride itself, so they could keep all their
cash in a centralized location—though it was hardly as secure as locking it in a bank
vault. They stuffed their ones, fives, tens, and twenties into a metal cash box, which
they locked and tucked away behind the farm stand’s front counter when they were off
on the hayrides. It was an admittedly unsecure hiding spot, but folks around here
were honest and hardworking, and even if someone should happen to discover the box,
Candy and Maggie had no concerns that it’d be stolen.

They’d also placed a hand-lettered sign on the counter that read H
AYRIDE IN
P
ROGRESS
, since inevitably customers would come along wanting to purchase pumpkins and other
farm-stand items, or tickets for an upcoming ride, while they were in the back field.
But the hayride lasted only ten or twelve minutes, and so far no one seemed to mind
the wait.