It is all things pumpkins right now.
The large orbs of orange are taking over the squash garden, fueled by the energy of the fallen souls in the goat cemetery. It pleases me that Old Man Guinnias, Honey Boy, Gertie, Georgie, Granny and Aunt Bea are all adding their love and nutrition to the growing of these creatures.
It is one more way that with life there is always death entwined, and here at the farm, death always starts a life in one way or another. A worm dies for a chicken to lay the egg, an apple falls from the mother tree to feed the pig, and now, the bodies of the old goats now past help the pumpkins - the latter will also give their lives for pie, pancakes, muffins, soup and barnyard snacks.
Someone mentioned pumpkin pancakes and it's all I can think of. The crisp fall air [finally] and crunchy leaf sounds take me back to moments of youth, being chilled from outside play, but upon entering the house of my youth the waft of baking cinnamon and the sound of my mother's voice,
"Is that you? It's time for dinner," floats over my head. I feel safe and content to be inside.
