Since I was a kid, I’ve loved pumpkins. Maybe it’s because I was born in October, and my dad brought my first pumpkin to the hospital. Or because we grew them in our garden when I was a kid. Either way, pumpkins have always been more than just a typical winter squash. They’ve been symbols of happiness and gratitude. The sign of a new season. A joyful mark of fall.
When we moved into our current home eight and a half years ago, I decided we needed pumpkins – lots of pumpkins – which I bought around town and staged all over our yard. Yet the display didn’t feel complete. After a while, I realized what was missing.
“It’s the end of the street!” I said. “The old neighbors used to maintain a garden. We need to do that too!”
My husband looked at me and laughed. But, knowing my love of pumpkins (perhaps only outshined by my love for flamingos), he didn’t object. We lived on a private road. There were indeed remnants of an old garden by our street sign. We decided to make caring for it our job.
And so we did, clearing weeds, laying mulch, and adding those first few pumpkins, along with a couple of mums and a scarecrow we secured with a bike lock to our street pole. The corner looked happy and welcoming, the perfect picture of fall. I was pleased.
And with that, our job as street corner caretakers was solidified.
Over the years, our displays have grown. We’ve added a second garden to the other corner. We bought a snowman for Christmas. We started planting flowers each spring and putting out American flags for the Fourth of July. But it has always been autumn when our corners have shined.
Except for one tiny problem. Every year, at least one of our pumpkins disappears, stolen in the night.
Each time, it would send me into a tailspin.
At first, I’d be hurt. Who would steal our pumpkin? Didn’t they know how much joy it brought us?
Then I’d grow annoyed. I bet it was teenagers, I’d say.
Later, I’d become hopeful. Maybe they’ll feel bad and bring it back!
Finally, I’d accept it, and if I was too sad to look at a pumpkinless corner, I’d go out and buy a new one.
Sometimes that pumpkin would survive until Thanksgiving. Often it would disappear, too.
As the years passed, my curiosity about this continued to grow. Where were my pumpkins going? Was it the same group of kids every year? Were the pumpkin thieves local? Were my very own pumpkins out there staring at me every time I went for a walk or run?
This year, I decided I had to know. So I did what any rational pumpkin lover would do: I bought a couple of air tags and placed one in each pumpkin, hiding the hole with the sticker from the store.
Right away, I felt better. I no longer had to go to the corner every time I was worried about my pumpkins. Now I could rest easy, confirmation of my pumpkins’ safety just a click away in the Find My app on my phone, where I named them Pumpkin One and Pumpkin Two.
One day, my app told me that one of the pumpkins hadn’t been seen recently. Worried, we ran to the corner.
Sure enough, someone had stolen Pumpkin Two.
Frantic, I checked my app, but Pumpkin Two’s location hadn’t been updated. Wherever he was, he wasn’t near an iPhone. I started to worry he’d been smashed and thrown into a ditch.
Once again, the disappearance sent me into a tailspin.
First, hurt. Who would steal a pumpkin? Didn’t they know how much we loved it?
Then, annoyance. Why isn’t my air tag updating?
Followed by hope. Maybe someone will discover the air tag and bring him back!
And then, before I could reach the stage of acceptance, a notification popped up on my phone. It was Pumpkin Two, located about 15 miles inland!
Fifteen miles inland? My mind was blown. Who would steal a pumpkin and then transport it somewhere rural, where pumpkin farms were aplenty?
Mystified, I started polling friends and family for advice. There was talk of calling the non-emergency police line or of stealing it back in the night. Most people told me just to let Pumpkin Two enjoy his new home.
But what if he didn’t like his new home?
After a couple of days, I was certain that our police force had better things to do than track a lost pumpkin and that stealing it back was not only unsafe, but a little wrong. I decided we would take a ride and see if we could make contact. Then, we could reevaluate our choices.
So, on a glorious fall Sunday, we loaded the kids into the car and set off. It turned out Pumpkin Two might’ve scored an upgrade, his new neighborhood filled with big houses with sprawling yards filled with grass and woods, the trees a stunning burst of color.
As we approached the address, my husband slowed.
“There it is! That’s the house!” my kids yelled as it came into view.
Only there was a problem. While the house had a pumpkin, it was way too small to be Pumpkin Two.
Immediately I felt defeated. Dejected. Demoralized.
Yet, I was not ready to give up. The house was surrounded by woods, and I became convinced a carload of kids had abandoned my pumpkin there after a joyride.
So I got out of the car and began walking, searching the woods as I begged my phone to ping with my pumpkin’s location. It didn’t.
Sadness grew. It was clearly time to give up.
And yet, as I reentered the car, part of me knew we couldn’t leave until I’d done everything possible.
“We need to ask the people who live here,” I said. “We’re so close. It says my air tag is in their house. We need to ring the doorbell.”
My husband raised his brow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I shrugged. “Maybe one of their kids brought it home. Maybe someone will feel badly about it.”
He shook his head. I opened the car door. And before I could give it much thought, I rang the bell.
A moment later, a gentleman in his fifties answered. I gave him my best smile.
“I am so sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I am looking for a missing pumpkin. You see, every year someone steals them from our street corner, so this year I air tagged them. My air tag says it’s right here. I thought maybe some kids might’ve taken it and thrown it in your woods. Is there any chance you’ve found it?”
He looked at me, confused. “A missing pumpkin?”
“Yes. A pumpkin.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen it.”
I frowned. “You sure? The air tag says it’s here.”
He frowned back. “I’m sorry. I don’t have it. But you’re welcome to search my woods.”
At this, I smiled and thanked him for his time. Then, I spent a few more minutes searching his perimeter, but I knew in my heart that this was it. Pumpkin Two was gone.
Over the next few days, my air tag continued to ping near that address. So I marked it as lost and left my phone number, hopeful someone would notice and contact me. But no one ever did.
And while it wasn’t the ending I’d been hoping for, I found the failed retrieval mission had given me some closure.
I now knew Pumpkin Two’s final days were spent in a beautiful place. And I felt better knowing he hadn’t been swiped by locals.
While I would continue to miss our pumpkin, it was time to move on. And so I did, choosing to do what I did every year: buy another pumpkin and put it on the corner, this time without an air tag.
Though my air tag lives on somewhere a few towns over, its story is yet another mystery, like the glass flamingo dropped in our yard a couple of years earlier.
I may never learn its fate, but one thing is certain. Pumpkins are universally loved. And unmonitored pumpkins are just too tempting to resist.
So, to all those pumpkin thieves out there, I hope you’ll think twice before you steal a pumpkin again, and choose instead to leave it where it has been lovingly placed. Because pumpkins are beloved symbols of fall. They deserve to be enjoyed by their rightful owners.