pumpkins

Every fall, no matter where I have lived, I've gone to a downstate orchard with my brother, sister-in-law, and eventually their offspring. It is the happiest night of the year.

Each boy has an annual photo taken in a special location just for them, we all eat baked goods, and we drink just enough apple cider. That is the ceremonial portion of the evening. The rest is just running around in a pumpkin patch, feeding billy goats and climbing on the latest playground attraction cleverly introduced to lure families to Speer, Illinois.

Because I love everything about autumn and my brother's family and this particular orchard, it's a very nice way to spend an evening.

This isn't our first family tradition at this place. When I was a kid, all our neighbors would make a Saturday morning trek to the orchard for "U-pick" apples. One of the highlights for me was bumping along in the station wagon with the tailgate down. We got to climb trees and drink apple cider until we made ourselves sick [something we learned to regulate over time]. In these long-ago days there was pretty much one purpose for going to the orchard: to pick apples.

Now there is a water feature, petting zoo, country market (featuring pie) and hundreds of darling knickknacks. Fun for the whole family. Try going there any fall weekend and good luck finding a parking space.

It's been fun to watch the place change and grow, just as each year my little companions develop more amazing features. This year the middle one regaled us with a story all the way home. It began with a few thoughts that continued with "and then ..." Who knows where it came from? This fanciful tale involved giants and then alligators and then mud and then racing cars and then peacocks and then hot air balloons and then ... I was laughing so much I can't remember all the details.

I blame the cider.