(We had moments, you know.)
I am waiting patiently as Jacob finishes getting ready for the late service. Sunday evening. The stragglers, the waners, the devout. He has decided to shave in a hurry after a day feeling too scruffy, and then a button popped off his collar and he refused to let me sew it on for him while he finished doing everything else, and now he sits perched on the edge of the bed, a needle and thread in his nimble fingers struggling to make sure the button is perfectly straight. I watch from my vantage point near the window, my shoes uncomfortable strappy six-inch stilettos and a coral-colored brushed satin swing dress with the most delicate lace overlay you've ever seen. I'm afraid to even breathe in this dress, it's so fragile, so I only wear to evening service and even then, not so often since it's gotten cold outside. Jacob loves this dress. He calls me Pumpkin when I wear it.
I think that's what I'm going to do now.
I'm going to become a pumpkin farmer.
The grin spreads across his face as his eyes light up. A pumpkin farmer, hey? Let's talk about this. What are you going to do if there's a deluge?
I will give each of my pumpkin plants a tiny little umbrella so that once they have had enough rain, they can put them up and dry off.
What if there's a drought?
I will give them water guns so they can play AND stay hydrated.
He's trying so hard not to laugh. But, Bridget, what happens when all that love and attention results in pumpkins that are too big for you to lift at harvest?
Then I will turn the whole farm into a tourist attraction and also advocate for Macro Halloween, where everything is bigger, including the chocolate bars. Everyone wins, Pooh. This can't fail.
Where are you going to do this?
I see. What are you going to do for supplies?
Jesus, Jacob, did you even SEE the amount of seeds we scraped out of that pumpkin this morning? I think that will be lots. We're halfway there already.