Pumpkin carving at Halloween is a family tradition. When I lived in Las Vegas, we had to make do with baseball-size ones from the grocery store. But since we moved to the north-west 10 years ago, we’ve visited a local farm every October. There we ride tractors to the pumpkin patch and I compete with my three brothers and sister to seek out the biggest specimen. My dad has a rule that we have to carry our pumpkins back to the wheelbarrow, and as the eldest child I have an advantage – in 2015 I staggered back with an 85-pounder.
The following year, when I was 16, it was hard to tell whether my prize or the one chosen by my 14-year-old brother, Jason, was the winner. Unfortunately we neglected to weigh them before scooping out their innards, but I was determined to prove my point. All five of us were hard at work at the kitchen table, with my mom filming the annual ritual. I’m unsure now why I thought forcing my head inside the pumpkin would settle the matter, but it seemed to make perfect sense at the time.
With the pumpkin resting on the table, hole uppermost, I leaned over and pressed my crown against the opening. At first I got jammed just above my eyes and then, as I leant into my task, unwilling to quit, my nose briefly prevented entry. Then in it popped: my whole head, like a cork forced into a bottle. I was able to straighten up, triumphantly, with the gigantic squash resting on my shoulders.
My exultation was short-lived. The pumpkin was heavy. “I’m going to set it down, now,” I said, and with Jason helping to support its weight, I bent back over the table to give it somewhere to rest. It was only when I tried to remove my head that I realised getting out was going to be less straightforward than getting in. The knot of my ponytail caught against the rim when I tried to pull out, as did the underside of my jaw. When I pulled my chin into my neck, my nose got in the way instead. I felt a jab of panic as I braced against the table and moved my head around trying to find the right angle, but it was no use. “I can’t get it out!” I roared, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. The muffled voices from outside were oddly calming, though – Mom unruffled and amused, Jason giving advice, my 10-year-old brother, Austin, singing a song I couldn’t make out. There was enough space around my neck to let a little light in and, fortunately, I’ve always liked the smell of pumpkin. My bellowing provoked little sympathy. “Don’t use up all your oxygen,” Mom suggested.
