October 28, Tuesday
barrel storage rotation the practice of moving barrels between warehouse positions to manage aging conditions
THREE PUMPKINS sat on my picnic table like orange sentinels in the afternoon sun, their bright surfaces still dusty from yesterday's adventure at the patch.
Poppy had arrived at my campsite shortly after lunch, practically vibrating with excitement about our planned carving session and carrying a canvas bag filled with tools she'd borrowed from her father.
"I've been thinking about this all morning," she announced, dumping the contents of the bag onto the table with characteristic enthusiasm. "I want to make mine look like a cat—you know, with whiskers and pointed ears."
I examined the pumpkin I'd selected, a perfectly round specimen with a sturdy stem that would make an ideal handle for the top. "Classic jack-o-lantern for me," I said, tracing triangular shapes in the air where the eyes would go.
We spread old newspapers across the table's surface and set to work with the focused concentration of serious artists.
Poppy approached her cat design with the precision of someone who'd clearly given the project considerable thought, carefully sketching whisker lines with a pencil before making her first cut.
"The secret," she informed me as she sawed through the orange flesh with a small serrated knife, "is to make the ears from the pieces you remove from the face. That way everything matches perfectly."
I watched her work with admiration. Her small fingers moved with surprising dexterity as she carved delicate features that really did resemble a feline face.
My own approach was more straightforward—traditional triangular eyes, a smaller triangle for the nose, and a wide grinning mouth that would look appropriately spooky when illuminated.
The ritual of pumpkin carving brought back memories of childhood Halloweens with my mother, back when she'd had the energy for such projects.
We were just adding the finishing touches when Marilyn walked past on her way to the shower house, a towel draped over one arm and a defensive posture that seemed to be her permanent setting.
She glanced toward our table, and I caught a flash of interest in her dark eyes before she quickly looked away.
"Hey Marilyn!" I called out impulsively. "We've got an extra pumpkin if you want to join us."
She stopped walking and turned, her expression immediately shifting to practiced indifference. "Carving pumpkins is for little kids," she said with a scoff, though I noticed she'd moved closer to our table rather than continuing toward the showers.
Poppy's head shot up from her carving with indignant protest. "No it isn't! It's art! And besides, Halloween is for everyone, not just little kids."
"Halloween is stupid," Marilyn replied, but her tone lacked real conviction. "It's just an excuse for people to waste money on decorations they'll throw away in a week."
"That's not true!" Poppy shot back, her freckled face flushing with the passion of someone whose favorite holiday had been insulted. "Halloween is about creativity and imagination and making something beautiful out of ordinary things."
"Whatever," Marilyn said, rolling her eyes with theatrical disdain. "I've got better things to do."
I watched the exchange with growing understanding of the dynamics at play. Marilyn wanted to join us—I could see it in the way she lingered, the way her eyes kept drifting to our half-carved pumpkins—but she'd backed herself into a corner with her initial dismissal.
"No problem," I said with deliberate casualness, returning to my carving. "Marilyn probably doesn't know how to carve pumpkins anyway. It's harder than it looks."
The challenge hung in the air between us, and I saw Marilyn's jaw tighten. For a moment I thought she might take the bait.
Instead, she flounced away with exaggerated indifference, her flip-flops slapping against the gravel path as she headed toward the shower house.
"She wanted to do it," Poppy observed quietly, watching Marilyn's retreating figure. "I could tell."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But sometimes people get trapped by their own attitudes."
We returned to our carving with renewed focus, and within another hour we'd completed our masterpieces.
Poppy's cat pumpkin was genuinely impressive, with delicate whiskers carved from removed pieces and pointed ears that gave it a mischievous feline expression.
My traditional jack-o-lantern grinned up at us with satisfying symmetry.
"These are perfect!" Poppy announced, already gathering two of the pumpkins to carry back to her family's campsite. "Mom's going to love them. Dad will probably want to take about a hundred pictures."
I helped her carry the pumpkins to the edge of my campsite, then waved goodbye as she skipped down the path toward her family's section of the campground. My own jack-o-lantern sat alone on the picnic table, its carved grin catching the late afternoon sunlight.
I decided to check on a load of laundry I'd left in the washhouse, figuring I'd light a candle in the pumpkin when I returned to create the full Halloween effect.
The walk to the laundry facility took about ten minutes, and I spent another few minutes transferring clothes from washer to dryer and feeding quarters into the machine.
When I returned to my campsite, my stomach dropped.
My jack-o-lantern lay in orange pieces scattered across the gravel beside the picnic table, its cheerful grin transformed into jagged fragments that had been deliberately smashed.