It was Morley’s idea, originally.
Well—technically—it was her idea. She was the one who suggested it. She’d read about the pumpkin festival in The Neighbourhood Weekly, which Dave always said was less journalism and more passive-aggressive scrapbooking. There was a coupon for kettle corn and a blurry photo of last year’s pumpkin queen.
“They’ve got a corn maze,” she said, circling the date on the fridge calendar with the kind of enthusiasm she usually reserved for yoga passes or tax rebates. “And there’s a trebuchet!”
That was the moment Dave perked up.
“A trebuchet?”
“A pumpkin trebuchet,” said Morley.
Dave’s eyebrows shot up like they were trying to escape his forehead. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
You see, Dave had a theory. He believed that nothing—nothing—bonded a father and son more than launching something across a field using medieval warfare technology.
“Other than blowing things up, shooting things, or fishing,” he said.
Sam, his teenage son, didn’t look up from his phone, but nodded just enough to endorse the theory.
So the plan was made. Saturday. The whole family. The pumpkin festival.
Now, Dave has a history with autumn.
More specifically, he has a history with pumpkin-related injuries.
There was the Great Carving Debacle of 2003, when he tried to recreate the face of Elvis on a jack-o'-lantern using only a melon baller and a paring knife. That one ended with four stitches and a pumpkin that looked like it had seen things it could never unsee.
Then there was the incident with the gourd bongos. But we don’t talk about that.
So when Dave said, “Let’s carve a family pumpkin this year!”
Morley, already tying her scarf, just said, “Only if we carve it after we visit the emergency room, and save us the trip.”
But Dave was in full-on Dad Mode.
This was about tradition. About memories. About picking out the perfect pumpkin together.
You know—the big orange beacon that says: this family has it together.
When they arrived at the festival, the smell of roasted corn and wet hay was thick in the air. Children were running around in dinosaur onesies. A man on stilts was juggling squash. There was a booth selling artisanal cider that tasted suspiciously like Tang.
They made it to the corn maze first. Morley squinted at the map nailed to the fence.
“Dave,” she said, handing him a copy, “remember last time?”
“I only got mildly lost,” said Dave.
“You were found by a Girl Guide troop from Sudbury,” said Morley.
“They gave me cookies,” said Dave.
“They took pity on you,” said Morley.
It was agreed that Sam would go with Dave this time.
“You’re our tracker,” said Morley.
“Cool,” said Sam, not looking up.
They disappeared into the stalks.
Twenty minutes later, Sam emerged with a caramel apple and no Dave.
They found him forty-five minutes later, arguing with a scarecrow and trying to get GPS on his phone.
Eventually, they made their way to the pumpkin trebuchet.
It was run by a man named Doug who wore a welding mask and had one thumb too few.
“Safety first!” he bellowed, before pulling the lever and launching a pumpkin clear over a cornfield.
Dave’s eyes gleamed.
“Sam,” he whispered. “This. Is. Living.”
Somehow, Dave convinced Doug to let him load one in himself.
Morley, sensing doom, had already begun rifling through her purse for the insurance card.
Dave lifted a particularly large pumpkin—he said heft matters—and, with a theatrical flourish, placed it in the sling.
He pulled the release cord.
Nothing happened.
He gave it a tug.
Still nothing.
So he gave it what he called “a proper man’s yank,”
And the arm whipped forward with a medieval vengeance.
The pumpkin flew.
So did Dave’s hat.
The trebuchet did a sort of ancient, wooden backflip.
The pumpkin, instead of soaring majestically across the sky, hit the axle and exploded like an orange grenade.
Morley later described the result as “like standing beside a Jackson ******* painting made of pie filling.”
Dave wiped pulp off his glasses.
“Well,” he said, “that one’s a write-off.”
They left shortly after that.
Sam with a new appreciation for physics.
Morley with half a sleeve of emergency wet wipes.
And Dave—with a mild concussion and a bag of frozen corn on his head—declaring,
“Next year, we build our own trebuchet.
