Nik's Pumpkin Pie

By Rhoda Sanford

We gardened that year, after their father died. Their little dimpled hands and knees were black with mud, and wide grins stretched across their dirt streaked faces as we planted seeds and watered.
Nik said, “Sister, don’t you think we need a scarecrow?”
“Oh, yes, Brother,” DaNae piped up. “We do.”
So we made a scarecrow to scatter the birds and moles and creepy critters that ate his corn and DaNae’s carrots. They crayoned a face on an old pillow; DaNae drew eyes with precision, Nik colored a scary mouth with abandon. Grandpa gave up an old shirt that we stuffed with rags, and I contributed a raggedy pair of old jeans that flapped in the wind. Nik said it needed a hat, so Grandpa rummaged one from the back of his closet. Their scarecrow stood guard that summer as the veggies grew.
DaNae was delighted with her sweet carrots, and Nik was so proud of the corn stalks growing so much bigger than he was. But their chief delight was the pumpkins. We had enough to carve into jack-o-lanterns to bring home, and enough to make pies.
The children carefully measured the flour and sugar and salt for me, spilling a little (ok, quite a bit) of everything onto the countertop, the floor and themselves. Nik discovered that he could make a pile of sugar in front of him, then dip his fingers into it, making finger lollipops for him to lick. It was a trick they both continued to use when we baked cookies and cakes. Then DaNae put the pieces of cooked pumpkin into the blender, I set it on puree, and Nik turned it on.
Breaking the eggs into the pumpkin filling was their greatest pleasure. Nik, by the time he was 16, could break an egg with one hand, never harming the yolk, and never getting shells into the filling. He loved to cook.
Nik and his Uncle Rex vied in Desire’s kitchen, making up marinades for elk jerky, adding red peppers, garlic, this and that from the cupboards, Nik certain his was best.
“Isn’t it, Grandpa? Isn’t my jerky the best?”
When company came, he was up early in the morning, making Blueberry Pancakes from scratch, serving them with a flourish and a big smile.
He was his Father’s son, born with black curly hair and Bobby’s hands. But he had his Mother’s clear blue eyes. Oh, he was good to look at. He was intelligent, inquisitive, and delightful. He also thought he should be King of the Hill, and he had a good set of lungs to prove it. When he was three, Nik declared in roars that he was Alpha Dog.
Of course, a three year old can’t be allowed to rule the roost. I quickly established myself as Alpha Bitch. We got along well, Alpha to Alpha.
Grandpa and I took them to Death Valley, one of my favorite places. Nik wanted to see the kilns, high on the mountaintop, but the snow was too deep even for Grandpa’s Dodge Ram 4 wheel truck, which was in danger of getting mired down for the rest of winter. Nik conceded that we tried, and he bought his Grandpa a souvenir rock. He didn’t have enough money to buy himself a souvenir.
His most endearing quality was generosity. Christmas, to him, was a time for Giving, and he gladly spent his savings in the Dollar Store we visited each Friday-After-Thanksgiving- in Coeur d’Alene. Every year he donated a month’s allowance to the Lion’s Club Toys for Tots, not letting them use his name.
I loved the fact that the kids enjoyed that first Pumpkin Pie so much that they couldn’t eat a store bought one. I’ve grown pumpkins ever since for DaNae and Nik. Just so they’ll have real pumpkin pies, the kind you can’t buy, the kind that’s grown with love, and baked with love, and packed so full of love it can’t be contained.
Nik baked one for Charlene and Miguel and the rest of his beloved San Pedro relatives. It was Thanksgiving, and there were no pumpkins left in the grocery, so he resorted to canned pumpkin from the shelves, sure it couldn’t be as good.
But I’m told it was, it was delicious. Their mouths filled with goodness and sweetness, and they savored his love in every bite.