The pumpkins are shooting up and out in rocket-fast jungle-bright green. Every single day they look taller and the male pumpkin blossoms give way to the enormous female blossoms closer to the ground, vining further out, pumpkins in tow. Sam says that that’s the pumpkins’ insurance policy, sending out the guys before the ladies. I guess so that the female blooms can be pollinated as soon as they open. I round the corner into the farm and every single morning it impresses the heck out of me. How tall they are. How much they’ve grown. How green they are in this dead heat. It impresses every random early morning thought right out of my head. They told Pete he couldn’t grow pumpkins on the coast of South Carolina. Too wet, too hot, too everything. But they were too wrong.

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