Off Topic: Memories of Merrymead

Today was pumpkin day. Every year since the oldest little Jane was two we have taken an annual pilgrimage to Merrymead Farm, in Lansdale. I remember that first trip very well because the oldest little Jane (then the only little Jane) wanted to ride in the wagon train (several high-sided wagons in a line, pulled by a lawn tractor). Mr. J and I were concerned about LJ falling out or getting scared or any number of other things that first time parents worry about. But we put LJ in the wagon and off they went around the corner of cornstalk tunnel. When they came back into view LJ was all smiles and waves. And so it has become a yearly ritual, though the wagon train was outgrown long ago. We ride the hay wagon and pick up a few pumpkins in the pumpkin corral. I go nuts in the two on-site shops, the Apple Shed and the Dairy Barn, but, honestly, where else can I find banana butter (wonderful on warm banana bread)? Not to mention the wide selection of soup mixes and cupcake sprinkles. (True confessions: I also bought some gummy pumpkins to sustain us on the long drive home.) If you like hormone free milk, they have that too, as well as ice cream in a number of flavors. On the October weekends that we have gone we have seen primarily other families with small children, who give every appearance of never having known want or fear. They gape at the goats and cows and llamas and rabbits while parents eye the “Caution: Llamas Spit” signs. (For health reasons visitors are no longer allowed to touch the animals.) You can have a great time there without spending a lot of money but it is easy to do if you have it. I think we have another two years, maybe three, before the oldest little Jane starts to balk. I hope the kids have good memories of “the pumpkin patch” as Merrymead is known in our house. As we were bumping along in the hay wagon this year and reminiscing about previous visits I leaned over and mentioned to Mr. J that in 20 years we might be bringing our grandchildren out to the farm. He blanched but did the math and agreed. It is wonderful to think that the farm would still be there then, and not turned into another homogenous grouping of McMansions or a gated community. You never know, though; our stories about the farm might become stories about something that no longer exists, like trying to tell the kids that you used to actually roll down car windows or describing the rural one room elementary school that Mr. J's older siblings attended. But, for today, the family ritual continued and that's all you can really ask.