The symbol of Autumn in my part of the country here in northeastern Ohio is the pumpkin! As the robin is the harbinger of Spring, so the pumpkin is the harbinger of Fall. The great wheel of the year is turning toward the Fourth Cross-Quarter Day and pumpkins are everywhere in every shape, size and in every gastronomical delight!
In northern Alabama, the first fifteen years of my life fields of pumpkins were not part of my heritage as were the fields of watermelons. I am now told that all of that has changed since cotton is no longer King and pumpkin production is on the rise! As a youngster I could only dream about pumpkins and widely grinning jack-o-lanterns at our annual fall festival night in the hall above the old parochial grade school in town.
The stage was always decorated with shocks of corn fodder and bushel baskets of corn in and out of the husks and whatever bounty the farmers brought from the fields to provide for the poor. Memory is faulty, but I don’t recall a single pumpkin among the offerings. But what I do recall clearly is Father Germain’s annual rendition of James Whitcomb Riley”s “When the Frost is on the Pumpkin” to the tune of “Turkey in the Hay!, Turkey in the Straw!” Feet tapped and hands clapped in time to the tune as we all strolled through fields of “punkins” in our minds!
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
For a brief spell the glory of Autumn is found in fields of golden pumpkins and brilliant leaves that turn the world into an enchanted land of red and gold.
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