We slacked off a little this year and waited until Halloween Eve to carve pumpkins. This year we had a mixed selection: a few pumpkins from our little garden next to the driveway and a few pumpkins from the town of Floydada, self-proclaimed pumpkin capital of Texas (I'll go more into that trip in another post).
We covered the table with newspaper and set out the scary selection of Jason Voorhees-style knives. The kids picked their pumpkins, and Suzanne and I starting cutting open the tops. It was up to the kids to dig out the goo.
For the most part, the pumpkins were fairly easy to carve, except for Megan's. For some reason, Megan's pumpkin had grown a thick rhino, adamantium hide, virtually indestructible. Suzanne and I both took turns at it, stabbing at it. What we needed was a pickaxe.
"Come on, ole granny!" Megan exclaimed, trying to cut through with her little saw. "This old granny's a tough one!"
Suzanne was finally able to carve a mouth and eyes into the pumpkin. This was far after I had given up (since I had been struggling with my own carving problems). I had decided to try out our newfangled carving kit and carve out some ghosts on the front of my pumpkin. I had never used one of these pattern kits before. Usually I go with the crazy, cross-eyed, big-fanged asymmetrical face-type artistic endeavor, but this year I was curious.
Our kit consisted of two carving saws, a pumpkin guts scooper (it looked like a cross between a fan and a spoon), a small pumpkin skin hole puncher, and a series of patterns. You're supposed to take one of the patterns, place it on the pumpkin, and punch holes along the border of the pattern. When you're done punching the holes, you remove the paper from the pumpkin and carve the pattern shape by following the holes. This is, oddly, the exact same technique I used to put in a doggie door at our old house, except that I used a screwdriver to make the holes and a metal file to carve out the door. To clarify, that was an extremely stupid way of putting in a doggie door. Since then I've learned they have things called 'drills' and 'saws' that are supposed to make this type of work easier.
Unabated and ignorant of my past mistakes, I picked the ghost pattern and then immediately spent the next half hour diligently poking my holes. Then I started carving. And carving. And carving.
Here's the thing no one tells you: these little carving tools and hole punchers and pumpkin whatnots are secretly designed by a group of gourd-carving devil spawns with very, very tiny hands (and not child hands either, because I don't know the kid who has the patience to poke ten thousand holes in a pumpkin's skin before getting to play with a sharp knife). My hands were cramped up, curled like they were claws, because I could just barely grab the tiny saw, and once I did start carving, I really didn't care about staying true to the pattern. I just wanted to finish, stick a candle in it, and call it good.
When we finally completed our pumpkin carving marathon, we had a jolly good family of bright-eyed pumpkins who were ready for the front porch. (Mine, alas, didn't fit the theme, so next year I'm reverting to my old standby.) Suzanne's pumpkin made me burn with envy: long, oblong, and with a face that fit it perfectly. And the kids each had their own style of crazy carved head. I, unfortunately, shortchanged our family's creative culture and copied a crummy ghost pattern.
I'm ashamed, and as I spend Halloween Eve in the pumpkin patch waiting for the Great Pumpkin, I'll beg for forgiveness.
