Monday October 25, 2004
	What to do with your jack-o'-lantern after October 31:
	Every November 1st (when my father was still alive), we'd put our used-up jack-o'-lantern in the trunk of his car (and I'd get in the trunk too and pull down the lid).  Then dad would affix another license plate over his license plate.  (I thought everybody did this). "Just to be on the safe side," he'd say. The idea was simple:  dad would drive and when I'd hear him yell, ("Now son!") I'd push open the trunk and eject the pumpkin. Of course, that's the bare bones technical aspect of it.  The real thrill came in the not knowing. One year dad yelled, "Now son!" and when I pushed open the trunk I was an arms length away from the front door of our local Kmart (he had backed the car up onto the sidewalk his rear bumper only inches from the doors making it impossible for anyone to enter or exit the store). On another November 1st dad yelled "Now son!" and when I opened the trunk I was looking down and into the water of our heated community pool.  After some hesitation (it was filled with frolicking swimmers all with paid-up memberships) I dropped the pumpkin onto an elderly woman floating on her back. My father enjoyed my description of that years discard immensely and he laughed and he called me son and it felt good so I exaggerated wanting him to call me son again so I said: "When the pumpkin landed on her belly her false teeth popped out."  "Next year, son," he'd say.  "Next year." He was my stepfather.  I needed him and it felt like I was his real son when he'd say, son. "Next year, dad," I'd say.  I liked being able to use the word, dad.  "Next year." The November 1st discard rules were ironclad:  when dad yelled "Now son!" the trunk was to open and no matter where we were or what I saw I was to dump the jack-o'-lantern. One year he backed me into a group of  Girl Scouts (They were seated around a table and there was boxes of cookies on the table and I dropped the jack-o'-lantern on the cookies and I remember how they screamed and how an elderly woman wearing medals threw one of the boxes at me).  Another time he found a portable toilet that was missing a door (I was so close I could have given myself a swirley). I never knew what dad would come up with next.  I was efficient and quick but my dad was the master.  Before I'd even get the trunk lid pulled down he'd have us out of the area and I knew we were in the clear when he'd sing the The Good Life by Tony Bennett. It was thrilling, especially for a young boy. I got to ride in a trunk.  I learned how to take and carryout orders and I began to understand potential repercussions to hesitation. Eight months before he died we headed out on another jack-o'-lantern November 1st discard adventure.  I was in the trunk.  Dad was at the wheel.  I was ready. After what seemed like only a moment or two of driving my father said: "Now son!" Dad had backed the car out of the garage driven around the block and back into our garage and when I opened the trunk our uncovered trash can was touching the rear bumper of his Buick LeSabre.  "Now son!" he said, again. When I hesitated he said it again only louder: "Now son!" When I dropped our jack-o'-lantern in the trash can dad was out of the car then looking at me he said: "Just to be on the safe side." I knew what he meant.  Fathers and sons understand each other about things like that. PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT