Letters To Lyla

Dear Lyla,

I think I have mentioned before that autumn is my favorite time of year. Not only do I appreciate the colors, sounds and smells that fill the senses during this time of the year; I am flooded with memories from the past, happy memories. Since it is Halloween today it is fitting that I tell you a bit about All Hallows Eves past, beginning with the first time I “carved” a pumpkin. My first pumpkin carving memory centers around the round oak table that used to sit smartly in front of a big window that overlooked the resort out on to the lake. I remember the smell of newsprint as grandma Jo had covered every inch of her beloved table as not to be scraping bits of pumpkin innards from its surface in the weeks to come. Then my daddy lifted the giant pumpkins on to the table. The pumpkins were HUGE, at least from my perspective they were. They were nice and round, a  uniform shape and a  dark orange color; everything you would want in a respectable jack-o-lantern to be.  Once the pumpkins were situated on the table Bumpa would have Patti and I step back from the table as he was about to use a very sharp and dangerous looking knife to open the top of the pumpkin and create its lid. Once the pumpkin had been liberated from its cap my sister and I would plunge our little hands into the guts of the pumpkin! How cold and gooey and oh-so-fabulous it was to pull the string and slime from the pumpkin’s belly. Grandma and Bumpa both got in on the fun to help us finish our pumpkins. Patti and I were given markers to draw faces on the pumpkins and Bumpa would cut them out for us; triangles for eyes, a circle for a nose and the most jagged teeth we could conjure up. The smells are what I remember the most; the earthy, pungent smell of damp pumpkin will forever be burned in my nostrils. It is the smell I look forward to every fall as a reminder of the natural order of the seasons and the unstoppable rhythm of life. It is a smell that I shared with your daddy long before you were born. Daddy and I delighted in finding the most complicated pumpkin patterns to carve. Then you came along and changed the meaning of what the ritual means for us. No longer is it a reminder of our youth and early adulthood; now it is part of a larger narrative. One where parents create magic for their children through simple tools and tea lights;  where it is possible to make a Sunday afternoon of pumpkin carving and toasting seeds seem like the longest and shortest day of a parent’s life. Watching your delight at your daddy’s deft hands while creating the likeness of Tinkerbell out of an over-sized gourd is one of the most precious memories I have. I like to think, little one, that grandma Jo and Bumpa treasured those times with my sister and me; that for an afternoon time was suspended and we all lived in the present without a care in the world. For Daddy and I those are the times when we are most reminded at how blessed and lucky were are to have found one another; for without which we wouldn’t have you!