Page 100 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Walter wearing his like a headband after too much cider.

I laughed. Then I had to blink back the tears.

“What are those?” Beau looked into the container.

“Pops’s uniforms.”

“Those?”

“He thought they made us look official.”

“They make you look like a gang of pumpkin farmers.”

I chuckled, running the fabric between my fingers. “That would’ve thrilled him.” For years, whenever I thought about the festival, the memories came attached to loss. Pops at the bonfire. Pops driving the tractor. Pops hanging lights.

Pops gone.

Standing here now, I remembered something else. He’d had fun, and so had I. Maybe remembering didn’t always have to end at the funeral.

I folded the bandanna carefully and put it back.

We spent the next two hours going through almost everything. Beau checked both wagons. One needed significantly more work than the other, though he thought both could be made safe in time. The tractor became a larger problem.

Beau had removed the battery, found cracked fuel lines, and discovered what he described as, “an impressive amount of rodent evidence,” beneath the hood.

I learned that was mechanic language for mice had apparently tried building a civilization inside Pops’s John Deere.

The generator was worse.

Beau stared at it for almost a full minute before announcing it might be more cost-effective to rent one.

I wrote everything down. By noon, my notebook held three pages. I sat on the edge of the wagon and studied the pages.

TRACTOR

WAGONS

GENERATOR

LIGHTING

FENCING

PARKING

BARN

I had then divided each into columns.

Need.

Want.

Later.

Beau noticed. Because of course he did.

“That’s very organized,” he said softly.