DANIELLE R. SHAPAZIAN: Hoping for an orange thumb in garden

Published online on Saturday, Oct. 10, 2009

OK, admit it. You're feeling a little smug, all you pumpkin farmers out there basking in the sunlight. You're getting ready to harvest your autumn bounty, those heavy orange mounds of success.

I hate you.

A friend recently told me that her neighbors, living in an upscale part of town, were growing a giant pumpkin in their backyard. I couldn't have been more envious if she had told me that a Mercedes S-Class was parked in their driveway.

I know, I know. Jealousy is not becoming. But I can't help myself, considering how hard I've tried to grow my own pumpkins this year. My consolation? It's knowing that some of you share a humiliating trait with me: We're failures at growing respectable gourds.

My latest agrarian adventure started after Thanksgiving dinner last year, with a family challenge. Who could grow the biggest pumpkin? The competitors: an 11-year-old boy, a middle-aged grape grower, and me, living in various parts of the Valley.

After talking a little smack, the game was on. The winner would be crowned over pie, Thanksgiving 2009. No problem. Or so I thought.

For a while, things were looking good. In late spring I planted dozens of seeds and the foliage grew green and robust. Yes, I was lazy with the irrigation and let sprinklers do my bidding. But didn't it rain regularly in New England where grand pumpkin patches are the norm? Even with the risk of mildew lurking, I rationalized that a little water on the leaf tops would be fine.

Then the beautiful flowers came. Lots of blooms, male and female, I learned to tell them apart. I watched and waited and prayed for bees. To my dismay, even after several weeks, no pumpkins were to be found. One morning near dawn I happened to catch the enemy in action. Ten dollars and a box of snail bait later, I stopped the feast.

A few times, Mother Nature pulled a mean bait and switch. I'd find an emerging pumpkin, half an inch long, only to check back a few days later to see that the fruit had completely dropped off the vine. I tried to keep the faith.

Thinking that science could help, I consulted the University of California Vegetable Research and Information Center. Guidance regarding beehive pollination and fungicide application only intimidated me. So I retreated to a less formal approach. A friend suggested I talk to my plants. I took his advice.

Finally, one small pumpkin came to maturity. I was thrilled, even though it was only the size of my fist. Grown as a labor of love, I made plans to give it to a fellow I knew. I figured he could place the seasonal embellishment on his desk and think of me.

I put the pumpkin in a small brown bag and presented it to him one evening after a particularly nice meal out. He paused for just a second and then announced with calm sincerity, "I think I'll chop it up and cook it in some fresh tomato sauce."

Pumpkin slaughter! (Knife to my heart.)

So here we are at harvest and only two measly pumpkins are left in my garden. One is still green, fighting for life before its umbilical cord of a stem finishes rotting toward the mother plant. The other is lying there, just beginning to turn orange, with hope. Shaped like an inverted triangle, there is no possibility that it will ever be able to stand upright on its wobbly base. Still, I couldn't be more proud.

I may not win the competition come November, but for this bumbling backyard farmer, it's my splendid dance with nature that counts.