Gorgeous fall day for a pumpkin festival, in spite of the furious wind, once again (though in my mind, fall and wind, kind of just go together, like—well, like anything else that goes together . . .). My sister Gretchen and I joined our other sis, Jill, and her kidlets, Amelia and Otto, for the 17th Annual Kelly Avenue Pumpkin Festival in Golden Valley (I'm sure I butchered the name of the festival, just typing on the fly here—it WAS in Golden Valley, it WAS on Kelly Avenue, and the central focus IS pumpkins, but as for the official name, well, I'm too lazy to Google it right now!).The origins of this festival is sofa king ;) awesome—many years ago,. a bunch of neighbors in a neighborhood were sitting around, sipping (that part is questionable, I'm thinking) cocktails and someone gets the crazy idea to start growing giant pumpkins, and have a neighborhood contest. Seventeen years later, this little neighborhood gathering draws hundreds of people to the cordoned off area of a quiet GV neighborhood adjacent to a park, where everyone DONATES time, efforts, whatever they can, to the cause.
I wish I had taken more photos, but Otto is at the age where he is a bloody handful right now (and I mean that more literally than you could ever imagine, and more than I could ever respectfully, in good conscience, post photos of. . . story to follow . . .); it was all we ALL (and I mean ALL three of us) could to, to keep track of him; hence, few photo ops to be had. You'll just have to trust my words to convey the awesomeness that was this event, in spite of the bloody ending . . . neighbors donate everything from food (hotdogs and bbq pork sandwiches, chips and an endless array of cookies, bars and other sweet treats, Surley beer for grownups, 1919 Root Beer and lemonade for kiddies), and entertainment (endless stations set up for kids—bean bag toss, face painting, relays, local fire department with new and vintage trucks on display, a DJ playing such FUN, eclectic music—Gangnam Style, Michale Jackson, Old Crow Medicine Show . . .), and overseeing contests—of course, the Giant Pumpkin contest (winning pumpkin was OVER THREE HUNDRED POUNDS, PEEPS!!! HOLY THANKSGIVING PIE, BATMAN!! AND NO, MY CAPS LOCK IS NOT STUCK, I'M STILL SHOUTING AT THE ABSOLUTE LITERAL ENORMITY OF THAT PUMPKIN!!!), and the Tallest Sunflower contest (I don't remember the height but I do remember that the winner was ELEVEN YEARS OLD!! YES! MORE SHOUTING OUT TO WINNERS!!), and a parade, complete with waving beauty queens and a local high school marching band. . . all contained within the confines of two city blocks . . . I know I'm forgetting things, there was so much going on . . . that's likely, in part, because I was so enveloped by the incredible sense of community, the beautiful rainbow blur that this event is steeped in, even as an interloper, I sensed this deeply . . . AND when the event was over, everyone in attendance was encouraged to take one of the pumpkins home (not one of the giant, hundreds+ pounds winning pumpkins; rather, from the endless pumpkin pyramids that were scattered about the festival).
At one point, Gretchen said, "I wish our neighborhood did something like this," and Miss Amelia, in her wise-beyond-her-years ways, looked up at Gretch and said, "Well, you could start one of your own, you know. . . " next weekend, Gretchen and her husband are having their own Halloween gathering in the backyard of their new home—who knows what might transpire around their bonfire, after a few cocktails . . . it reminded me of the wine parties Bob and I hosted at Wrenwood . . . anything in life worth pursing often begins with just one person . . . The day ended, unfortunately, with Otto—long past the time for his afternoon nap and getting crazy-squirrelier by the second—launching himself off the edge of a curb on our walk back home in a perfect 10 swan-dive face-plant on the asphalt. It was a slow-motion horror scene to behold, yet happened so fast that no one could do anything to stop it. The little bugger stood, screaming with every cell of his being, blood pouring from God only knows where—his whole face was covered in blood. . . Jill scooped him up and began running for home, which was several blocks away. . . Gretch, Amelia and I were running behind them, pulling a wagon with three pumpkins, coats, candy, shoes, empty tupperware containers for the homemade cookies Jill had contributed to the event, when I saw Jill slow as Otto was slipping from her grip.
"I can't hold him any more!" she cried. I dropped everything (which might have been nothing, I have no recollection) and tag-teamed with her, scooping Otto in my arms as he turned his bloodied face into my very artfully tied scarf and brand-new sweater, sobbing into my chest, "hold me, Jenny, hold me, hold me. . ." and then, "Where's my candy? Where's my candy? My candy . . ." I took off running with this little brute (who literally is about half my size), my heart nearly seizing from my chest with the effort, but feeling the adrenaline lifting my feet, assisting my arms . . . long story short, we made it home, Otto was cleaned up, and other than a very scraped up face (and swelling nose—I told Jill he could go as W.C Fields for Halloween. . . sorry, very bad taste, but still, kind of funny, if you'd been there . . .), he seemed to be back to his goofy self in time, though I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a black eye. Maybe two . . . at one point, he broke out into a 2-year old rendition of "Call Me, Maybe": "but here's my mumber, caw me maybe. . ." (don't know who sings that, refuse to Google it, for fear Miley Cyrus's photo will appear on my computer screen), punctuated with "where's my candy? wheeeere's my caaaaandyyyyy?!" referring to the candy he'd procured from the parade, which none of us could produce. We surmised it must have been dropped in the street as we ran for home, which didn't placate him one bit . . .
later . . . I went home, took one of my patented 10 Minute PowerNaps, then headed out for my evening walk with Rocco. On our final stretch for home, we ran into a woman who was dog-sitting for a 5 month old Golden Doodle (sorry, as cute as this dog is, those "designer dogs" are still every bit as mutt as Rocco is, in my opine. But no one asked me. . .) who, at five months old, is really is the cutest thing on legs—I swear, that doggie—Miles is his name!—how cute is that??!!—has springs for feet, he literally—and I don't mean that figuratively—bounds vertically, with every step, it's soooo fun and funny to watch, like Tigger! Anyhow, this woman was lovely, we spent a good 20 minutes condensing our life stories, ended up exchanging phone numbers, making plans to meet for coffee, and her parting words were that this neighborhood is the best place I could possibly be, right now, to reinvent . . . the slowing of handfuls of hair loss (and new growth that is finally appearing!!!) is but one piece of evidence of this. . . when I got home, I emptied my purse, to clean it out of the day's events. And found Otto's fistful of candy at the bottom . . .
Here's to community, peeps. Love your neighbors . . . xxoo
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