rot

This is what happens when I become too smug and confident.I was in the front yard tending to my pumpkin plants.  Marvelling at how, thanks to a mid-summer growth spurt, I would have six decent-sized pumpkins to carve come Halloween.   Not huge. but large enough.   My daughter was on the veranda.  Looking at the pumpkin that had grown between my veranda posts.   And had received that dent.  When suddenly, she said,  "Look. This looks bad."

From where I was standing, she appeared to be pointing to a small dark spot on the pumpkin's side. "Nonsense," I replied, accustomed as I was to less-than-perfect pumpkins, "it's just one more part of this guy's unique character. It'll be fine." But by the next day, one spot had become several . . .

. . . and six pumpkins were on their way to becoming five.

bent

I've been watching the pumpkin that's been growing between the posts on my veranda. It's been one of the more successful aspects of my vertical pumpkin growing experiment. And I believed that, as the pumpkin grew larger, the posts would quite naturally push it forward and onto the veranda floor.

But no.

When I took a closer look, I discovered to my horror that the posts were indeed squeezing the pumpkin.  But they were holding it captive.  Denting its sides.  Preventing the areas in contact with the posts from expanding.  Luckily, I check on my pumpkins regularly.  And was able to rescue the little guy before it became hopelessly trapped.  Apart from a couple of dents, it continues to thrive.  But it opens up a world of possibilities.  Maybe next year, I'll try this . . .

pumpkin renaissance

Back in July, the situation was bleak.

A cold, rainy June and a July of less than average amounts of sunshine meant crops were a couple of weeks behind schedule.  At best.  Including my pumpkins.  When they finally emerged from the soil, they were immediately set upon by a still-unidentified predator.  Only three plants survived.  Even the seedlings I had purchased at a garden centre as my back-up were not immune.  In fact, they were the first to go.  I was devastated.

I felt I might never plant another pumpkin seed.

Then, in August, everything changed.  The weather didn't appear to improve dramatically.  But my pumpkin plants did.  Those last survivors, which had been limping along for weeks, suddenly sprung to life.  Extending their stems and vines across my front garden and amongst the shrubs and perennials.

Even climbing the sides of my veranda as I had envisioned months ago.

Producing strong healthy leaves that seemed less susceptible to whatever creature had been feasting upon them. 

And best of all, despite the numerous fledgling pumpkins that had withered and died before their lives had truly begun,  four pumpkins thrived and grew larger.  Leaving me hopeful about their carving potential.  All four are already larger than the biggest of last year's crop.  They just need to survive for a few more weeks.

I'm not sure if I can take the credit for the stunning turnaround in the pumpkin patch. Perhaps it was my diligence in watering and fertilizing and checking on their progress each day. Making sure they were comfortable.  Perhaps it was the mid-summer weather.  The alternating weeks of rain. And sunshine. And more rain.   Whatever the reason, my faith has been restored.  I'm not ready to throw in the pumpkin-planting towel quite yet.

doubt

I'm trying not to panic. Trying not to lose faith. But I know that by this time of year, professional pumpkin growers are preparing for their harvests. And I know that by this time last year, my seven healthy pumpkins, while not huge, were the size of grapefruits. This year, thanks to a very wet and cold summer and a still-unidentified creature devouring the majority of my plants, I am left with only three plants and twice as many fledgling pumpkins. The largest of which currently looks like this . . .

. . . and measures two whole inches in length.

I'm putting on a brave face in front of the pumpkins. But I'm also secretly planning an autumn visit to a favourite local pumpkin patch.  Don't hate me, Great Pumpkin.