Squashed Dreams

Over the weekend, I spent an incredible amount of time with my youngest sister. We had tea, took pictures, visited a really lame pumpkin patch, and ate way too much ice cream.

I say the pumpkin patch was lame only out of what may be a spoiled sense of what a pumpkin patch should be. When I think of such a thing, my mind is filled with the smell of cider, the glory of corn mazes, and the childlike rapture in a simple hay wagon ride. (Mostly influenced by the horses. Because, holy crap, horses.) A pumpkin patch is a place to revel in all things fall, eat overpriced apple cobbler and pumpkin bars, and breathe in the wonderful smell of dead nature.

The pumpkin patch we visited only had pumpkins.

Lamest. Cauldron. Ever.

Okay, that's a slight exaggeration. There were many varieties of squash in all shapes and sizes. There was also some local honey, chewed up and spat out by bees in my own backyard. But that was pretty much where the fun ended.

I love pumpkins. But I love apple cider, too. I also hate disappointment, and lame things.

One good thing came out of our visit, at least: silly pictures.

And my sister's senior pictures turned out pretty well, too.