A tradition held together with coffee, baby wipes, and a church lawn full of charm
Every October, we drive a few minutes down the road with hot coffee and four kids asking for snacks five minutes into a seven-minute drive. There are no hayrides, cider, or curated rows of pumpkins set just so. It’s just a church lawn with pumpkins scattered haphazardly across the grass, like someone said, “This will do,” and somehow, it always does.
We pulled in, unbuckled the kids, and wandered into our annual fall ritual. Ivy picked up the first pumpkin she saw and decided it was perfect. George toddled around, plopping down on every pumpkin that was just his size. Conrad, ever the enthusiast, went straight for the biggest one on the lawn and gave it his best effort. He nearly lifted it this year- nearly. And Quinn helped me scout a porch-worthy one (round or oblong with the longest stem).
Everyone picked one for the porch, and one for their room, because nothing says fall like a small pumpkin perched beside a bedside lamp or nestled on a bookshelf. We took our usual round of semi-cooperative photos, and honestly? They’re my favorite kind.
It’s a no frills, no fuss tradition. Just a few pumpkins on some grass and one of those perfect, golden afternoons I want to bottle up forever.
