Written in October, found this morning while deleting crap.
   
Pumpkin guts are disgusting.  Orange, vile, goopy, stringy pieces of yuck that you have to cut and scrape and feel squishing between your fingers.  They get caught underneath your nails, clinging to your hands like dew clings to the flowers in the morning.  

The orange fibrous mass stares at you, knowing it's time has come.  The time to pull them out of the brightly colored globes and toss them away.  But, even before you get to the innards of the pumpkin, you have to cut the lid.  A place big enough for your hand, yet small enough to not get in the way of your design.  Angled, just right or the lid will collapse in and douse the flame that lights the face of the your ghoulish creation.

Oh, sometimes it's not so bad; you find the perfect pumpkin, round as a basketball, orange as the sun, a stem gracefully heading towards the skin.  Heavy, yet not overly so.  The knife plunges into the first spot and you gleefully realize that the flesh of the gourd is perfect.  Not too thick, not too thin, the perfect depth for carving your carefully chosen design.

You don't see that often, more times than not, you pierce the orange skin, your shining blade nicks the flesh, and stops.  A massive wall of light orange, almost peach flesh stands in the way.  Unyielding to the steel, it stands erect, a mass of armor, daring you to continue.

Your grip on the wooden handle of your weapon of choice, (a chef's knife, old, beat down, a notch knocked out of the blade,) gleams in the sunlight, as you press forward, all the force within your being willing the wall to succumb to your weaponry.  

Slowly, but surely, you feel the knife pierce the flesh.  Awkward, jagged edges appear, where you've rocked the knife back and forth, towards the goal of a roundish lid.  A sheen of sweat appears on your brow as you bit that mighty pumpkin down.  Inch by inch, you blade rounds the top.  Until finally it reaches the start.  You have achieved greatness; you are the pumpkin's master.

You have cut the pumpkin open.

The task continues, onward now to the pulling of the seeds, slowly you work your way through the disgusting mound of goo, pulling first one seed, then clumps of them as you work on.  Dumping seed after seed into a round pot, where they will rest until they meet the oven.  Each side is pressed in your fingers, to make sure it is a full ripe seed, one worthy of the heat, salt, and butter that will turn these small objects into delicious pieces of heavenly eats.

Your hand dives in and out of the pumpkin, more confident as you overcome your nausea of the goop, more seeds emerge, strands of the guts still clinging to them.  Eventually you realize that now you're pulling out more strings than seeds.  It is time.

Time to start the pulling of what would be organs on a human being, but instead are piles of yuck.  You grab your instrument of pilfering, first a spoon, an ordinary tablespoon, scraping, pulling, tearing at the flesh.

It is not good enough.  Your next piece of equipment, an ice cream scoop.  It yanks out the flesh in larger chunks, more on the table now, as you work, yet still it's not right.  You ponder your next move, contemplating the disembowelment of what was once just a gourd but is now your nemesis.
Aha, you remember, the Pumpkin Masters kit, it has a scoop; small, orange plastic, with a handle that your hand dwarfs.  You grab it, in hope of it being the ultimate weapon.

Gently you place your hand inside the pumpkin, feeling for the edge of it, you dig in.  Your patience has been rewarding.  The vile fibrous goo peels out in sheets.  Faster now, you pull the innards, discarding them to the side.  You yank and throw until you reach the point where you're sure you'll pierce the outer bright skin.

You stop, feel the inner and outer edges, you are victorious, your shell that will later glow with the brightness of a candle's flame, is ready.  It is one inch thick, even on the bottom to hold the torch.  It is ready.

Ready for what?  The design you so lovingly perused through book after book, website after website, digging into the depths of your mind, so the pumpkin you so hardily fought will be the perfect Halloween jack-o-lantern.

Black lines on a white piece of paper mark the lines you gently carve into the front of the pumpkin.  Curved lines, straight lines, jagged ones, and small holes; that all together represent the perfect spooky scene.  Grabbing the scotch tape and your small poking tool, you place the design on, tearing the flat one dimensional image until it wraps around the three dimensional ball of orange.

Slowly you poke the design in, inch by inch, you place the small dots.  It's a long weary task, but you can handle it.  You are the pumpkin vanquisher after all, you beat the guts out of the gourd.  Black lines become dotted with juicy orange, until you have covered the entire pattern.

Gently you peel off the transfer page, setting it to the side to follow as you take the small-serrated blade and trace the lines in flesh.  Starting with the smaller areas, you carve in the ghosts, the tombstones, and the evil trees.  You can see the dots taking shape as a wonderful scene.  Minutes tick by, but your entire focus is on the swish of the blade, the stench of the inside, the task at hand.

The blade pulls up and down, back and forth in a gentle motion, until you reach the end of the final line.  You pop out the last piece and smile.  All the work is worth it.  You place the candle inside; igniting its flame, replace the lid that you toiled so hard for.  And it appears, a scene of ghouls and goblins, lit only by fire, is in front of you.

The best jack-o-lantern you have ever carved is there, the one you did now.  The one that will rest its weary bottom on your stoop, while the small children take delight in it, the older ones plan on smashing it.  You take a picture of it, knowing that in just a few days it will be a pile of rot, hauled to the closest dumpster before you've even finished eating all of it's wonderful seeds.
 

Suzy Smith