The kids lumped the pumpkins into one great pile, hoarding pumpkins as squirrels do acorns. As the pile grew, so did their excitement. This was their own, a product of their own toil, their own thought, their own hands. It was something they could touch and claim. It was significant. Now and then, they’d crouched behind the pile peering over the pumpkins as a soldier would over a protective barricade. They crouched in a world of their own making, a tangible pocket where they made rules and dictated how things should be done.
As we walked away from the pumpkin patch, rode away in the wagon that brought us there, each child looked back at his/her pumpkin pile. People would see it and wonder who constructed such a fine testament to diligence and dedication. The children knew, my son new – he made it. It was his. It was his.
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