Adams Farm Poem by Bill Galvin

Pumpkins in orange rows and piles fill the pasture,
Next to the large shed,
Where there are some sugar pumpkins for pies,
And some mums and bags of apples and fall decorations;
Where dried corn stalks are stored,
Waiting to be attached to lampposts and porch columns.

“So, you’ve come out in spite of the rain? ”
I showed up between monsoon-like downpours
That flooded roads and loosened leaves from trees.
I was here last week to pick three pumpkins for my deck,
And one for the road.
“Yeah. It was bad driving in the next towns over from here;
I was out anyway, so, decided to come over.
Hey, that big one I told you I was bringing to Maryland…
Was a perfect fit next to my Ladyfriend’s mums on her deck.”
“Great! So, she has a New England pumpkin in Maryland.”
“Correct. Plus an apple pie from The Big Apple
Went over real well. I can’t go back without another.”
“Oh, yeah. Those are good pies. What do you need today? ”
“Well, I just need a small one for a gravesite.
I have mums there now; just need a small pumpkin.”
“Someone close? ” “My wife… beginning of the year.”
“Oh, sorry to hear about that.” “Much appreciated.”
“You’re the first customer today, you know.” “It’s 3: 30! ” I say.
“I know. But they stay away in rain, and in hot weather.”
“I can see the heat. Has to be fall-like to look for pumpkins.”

I go to the wet field, and pick my one from the thousand.
He weighs it. “Three dollars.” “Done deal.”

“Where do you go in Maryland? My wife and I like short trips.”
“A cute little harbor town called St Michaels.”
I give him a brief overview of the location.
“We go to Maine a lot. Upstate NY, and Pennsylvania.
And I drove through Delaware to that bridge… you know…”
He moves his hand and arm in a wavy up/down motion.
“Chesapeake Bay Bridge.” “Yeah. With the tunnels.”
“Well, if Bangor is five hours from here, St Michaels is seven.”
“That’s nothing; we’re looking for someplace new to go.”
I read the guy’s personality. “Lot’s of nice restaurants, ” I say,
“And plenty of bars… with live music. You’d like it.”
I make a motion like playing an air guitar. Acoustic air guitar.
“That sounds great. I love soft shell crabs. Have them there? ”
“The area’s famous for blue crab; plenty of them there.”
“That settles it, we’re going there next. You travel a lot? ”
“Cross-country a dozen times at least. Driven to Alaska.”
“My brother has done that. Went to Homer.”
“I know Homer… end of the road on the Kenai Peninsula.
As far as you can drive. I like his style.”
“He likes to just pick up and go.” “I know how he feels.”
“He’s in wine country, California, now.” “Sonoma, Napa? ”
“Yeah, that’s it. And he went north to the big trees.”
“The Redwoods.” “Right.” “I was all over that area months ago.”
“Really? ” “Yes. Stayed with my sister-in-law a few weeks
In Sonoma, and traveled that whole area. Nice country.”
“Hey, how do you go down south… through the city? ”
“Oh, no. I go Tappan Zee Bridge. Never through NYC.”
“That’s what I thought; we do, too.”

The second customer of the day arrives with her daughter,
Looking for corn stalks. “Oh, good. You kept them dry.”
The 3-legged dog that’s been sitting on a chair
Behind the counter runs out and says hello to the new party.
“He’s a greeter, ” I’m told. “Get back here, Bud.”
He’s a real friendly mottled pit bull,
And he does real well with only one hind leg.
“He’s a rescue, you know. My nephew in New Hampshire,
He was going to put a bullet in his head.
Bud got hit by a car, and they couldn’t afford the vet.
So, I took him after the vet fixed him up. A real good dog.”
Bud comes back and greets me for the first time.
This dog knows he got a new lease on life,
And is enjoying every kind hand that pats him;
And pays me back by licking my bare calf. Oh, well.

I get ready to leave when I see some corn stalks with feet
Start heading toward us.

“My name’s Bill, by the way. I come here every year.
Have a photo of last year’s field as my screen saver.”
I reach across the counter; he grabs my hand,
“Mine’s Jim. Nice to meet you, Bill.”
I walk somewhat carefully around the big puddles
Blocking the way back to the truck.
I call out, “Hey, maybe I’ll be back for something.”
“Well, you don’t have to buy anything, Bill, ” Jim hollers,
“Just come on back, and we’ll shoot the bull together.”
“Sounds good. See ya later, Jim.”
“See ya, Bill.”

10-1-2015 (Wrentham, MA)