I know myself, and I could not be more different from Uncle Howie. That the townsfolk associate me with him doesn’t bother me, though. It’s a small town, and that’s what folks do. They define people by the imperfect people who raised them.
“You might be a little confused, Norm. A corn maze and selling pumpkins is not going to make me rich unless I’m missing out on some secret society of billionaire pumpkin growers.”
Norm’s scowl becomes a sneer as he crosses his arms across his concave chest. He never liked my jokes as a teenager and that sure has not changed. “Smells like a tourist trap to me.”
Tourist traps are not illegal or even unethical by any measure, but I already know this argument is disingenuous on his part. Time to cut the crap.
“It’s not a crazy new idea by any stretch. Look.” I pull out a slip of paper from my folder where I’m keeping my fliers. I have all my official paperwork with me because, well, people around here tend to think they have a good reason to question the legitimacy of my business. “See, here’s my business license…” I unfold the official certificate from the state and the county, and for good measure, I show him my certification from the county agricultural extension office that shows I’ve completed courses and been inspected and certified as an official local producer.
“Now, come on, friend. Does that look like a get-rich-quick scheme to you?” I press.
His mustache goes up on the side with a smirk.
“OK, sure, but you still can’t post that. We’re competitors now. We sell pumpkins here.”
I’m almost at a loss. “Never in my life have I seen a man fight so hard against something as simple and pure as a pumpkin patch.” I know if I could just get the attention of local families, they’d be coming out in droves to pick pumpkins, wander through the corn maze, and take family photos on the straw bales—all the crap I used to love to do as a kid.
Of course, I didn’t go with my uncle who raised me, but with my best friend Jet and his grandma, who used to take us to pumpkin patches every fall. We’d pick out one pitifully small pie pumpkin each, then indulge in free apple cider. Afterward, we’d go back to her house, where she would help us carve jack o lanterns, and she’d bake a small pie with the flesh that she’d cut away from inside the rinds. Those are some of the best of my childhood memories.
When I talked to that nice lady at the state fair, she seemed very interested in a pumpkin patch, and just so happened to live nearby. She was cute, too. Really cute. No ring on her finger. Her name was Jane. Cute kid, too. I had hoped her restless toddler, Sarah, would hold out long enough for me to get her number, but when I returned from helping out my buddy Jet with some behind-the-scenes pageant drama, she was nowhere to be found. Disappointing but understandable. Kids are unpredictable.
I found out a few days after the fair that she’s best friends with Jet’s girlfriend, Rocket, which lifted my spirits even more, knowing that our paths will cross again, likely sooner rather than later. Rocket, however, refused to give me Jane’s number when I asked for it. “She needs space. She’s been hurt bad, and you need to let her come to you,” Rocket had said.
So imagine my delighted surprise when, in the middle of this ridiculous dispute over the grocery store bulletin board, who should walk up but Jane and Sarah.
Her face breaks into a huge smile at seeing me. I’m in heaven over the fact that she remembers me.
Her long brown hair falls in waves past her shoulders and she’s wearing a subtle amount of makeup. When I’d met her at the fair, it was such a hot day and I remember her hair was up in a messy topknot and she wore no makeup. Very pretty both ways. Her long, funky dress, tiny nose ring, and huge, hippie-style mom purse lend her an earth-mama kind of vibe. She carries Sarah in a soft, stretchy wrap thingy attached to her body, and the kid squeals when she sees me.
“Henry from the state fair! Your cult following has finally caught up with you,” she says, patting Sarah’s head.
“Hey,” I say. “Wow. I…” form a complete sentence any day now, Henry. “How…how are you two? I mean, I’m sorry I missed you.”
“I’m great, thanks,” she replies, then slaps the meat of her palm against her forehead. “I mean, I’m sorry I left so quick. Um, we’re good, thanks for asking.” Her nose crinkles and she closes her eyes when she’s embarrassed by her clumsiness, but she has nothing to apologize for. It’s maybe the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
She turns to the grocery store manager and asks about the problem.
Norm scrunches up his face and says, “I reserve the right to refuse anyone access to the bulletin board.”
Jane’s befuddled face turns back to me to get my side of the story.
That’s when I explain my current troubles with hanging fliers, while Norm squirms.
On the rare moments when the universe decides to intervene on my behalf, it can’t possibly do any better than the adorable duo of Jane and Sarah.
Chapter Three
Jane
Does this grocery store manager not understand that a broad-shouldered man advertising a corn maze and a pumpkin patch for kids is just about the sexiest thing that exists in four counties? Judging by Norm’s pocket protector and obstinate expression, I’d say no.
I say to the manager, “I was just thinking, this town is in desperate need of things to do with little kids. You should let him post this flier. After all, people do depend on their local grocery store for a certain sense of community.” I’m really hamming it up now, but it’s working.
