|Dead gourd, center.|
That's right, next to the compost bin. Not in the compost bin, where it might have eventually turned to compost. And by eventually, I mean within the next five years or so. I'm not the most responsible composter (periodically, I'll throw in fruit or vegetable scraps -- maybe a few dead leaves from the giant leaf pile also located next to the compost bin-- but it never gets turned or watered.) I know, someone who can't be trusted with regular kitchen floor maintainence should probably not attempt backyard conservancy.
Where was I? Ah. Last year's pumpkin, rotting away next to the compost bin - a sickly shade of bone. You'll notice a giant hole in the right side of the pumpkin corpse - that would be where Brad kicked a hole in it when he discovered the pumpkin had become a favorite breeding ground for mosquitoes.
But before becoming a bloodsucker love shack, last year's pumpkin gave us a gift. And that gift, of course, is more pumpkins.
|Lily investigates the progeny of last year's pumpkin.|
Anyway, I feel like last year's pumpkin is trying to speak to me from the grave. It seems like I should be divining a life lesson (or at least a writing lesson) from the new life that has sprung forth (and I'm not talking about just a rehash of that whole circle of life crap). The pumpkin has something more in mind. And every time I go out to check on the status of my new pumpkins, I try to listen to the dead pumpkin. So far, the only thing I hear is the buzzing of mosquitoes, the subsequent smacking of my hand on my leg, and my own grown of disgust as I wipe smashed mosquito bits on the grass.
Maybe some character down the road will figure out what I'm supposed to have learned from last year's pumpkin.
In the meantime, I know exactly where this year's pumpkins will end up in November.