By Ben Wakefield
I named you after my ex-wife, Bertha, for obvious reasons.
She’d always complain we never spent enough time together, but now we’ve been together since growin’ season started.
Your seed come from a Spanish dealer—Atlantic Giant, since you asked. Fifty gallons of water a day and fertilized with a little somethin’ special. You’d started real pretty, but yer kinda deformed now.
The state record for pumpkin is 2,147 pounds, but I reckon you’re gonna beat that, hands down. You must be 2,300 already, and there’s still two weeks of summer left.
Sweet gourd, we couldn’t have done it without her.
Love it! Made me laugh too.
Scott
Is it hinting that the wife was dead and buried under pumpkins?
Just wonder if I read it right.
Hello Chieh,
I read it as you did. Great piece, isn’t it?!
This is a grotesque tale in the tradition of horror stories. I liked it.
Funny story. You seemed to describe both Berthas in the same paragraph.