Yesterday, along with 135 parents and children, I attended our school's annual trek to the orchard to pick apples. The weather was perfect - low seventies, the kind of bright sunshine that tells you fall has finally arrived - and I looked forward to a day of chatting with parents and kids and absorbing one Midwest autumn ritual that I hold dear.
Only once we got there, we were told that we would not be picking apples - the apples were almost all picked already. We could pick pumpkins and gourds instead.
I have always considered myself a pretty flexible person. No problem, I thought. We'll pick pumpkins instead.
We rode to the pumpkin patch in four wagons pulled by two tractors. Our guide told us all about bees and apple trees and the growing seasons. We could pick one pumpkin per person, or two or three gourds, or a small pumpkin and a gourd, or something like that.
My partner and I were the last ones off the wagon.
By the way, our guide mentioned, we're going to take two of the wagons back to the barn. Can you just tell your people that they have to walk back?
Walk back? We looked at each other. Walk back with toddlers and preschoolers across a pumpkin field brimming with vines and pumpkins and pretty uneven ground? Walk back toting pumpkins and jackets and cameras and tote bags and crying children?
No problem, we said.
So we spread the word. Only half of the pumpkin pickers could ride the wagons back. Everyone else was on their own. Most people happily complied - it was, after all, a glorious day, and it didn't look to be that far.
People remained cheerful as they trudged half a mile through the fields.
People remained cheerful when our promised donuts and cider couldn't be easily found.
People remained cheerful when the personal items they'd left on the disappearing wagon didn't turn up anywhere.
Because I am a semi-reformed people pleaser by nature , I always feel a great responsibility to provide everyone with a good time. So far, the good time was materializing. I remained cheerful, too.
However, I lost my precarious hold on good cheer when the owner of the orchard - an elderly Asian man - appeared at the exit and began telling our families that they couldn't leave because they were stealing his pumpkins.
The father of a three year old boy was about to lose his temper when I arrived on the scene. The owner kept repeating that since the two pumpkins didn't have a sticker on them, the man was stealing.
I thought I would easily be able to smooth this over.
"He's with our school group," I tried to explain. "We paid for a field trip and everyone is supposed to be able to take home a pumpkin."
But the owner would have none of this.
"He has two pumpkins."
"He's carrying one for his son. His son is three years old and can't carry a pumpkin all the way to the car."
By this time, a small group had formed.
"Children need to carry their own pumpkins. We have rules. Children must follow the rules."
The owner went on to explain that he didn't even know if we had paid for the field trip. He was just protecting his pumpkins, he said. He had a right to protect his pumpkins.
At this point, I felt myself getting perilously close to, well, rage. I practically shouted that I had just written his orchard a check. For a thousand dollars. I had the receipt in my pocket.
And thus began one of the world's most circular arguments. I should have know better than to engage. I should have.
Owner: Some people have pumpkins and two gourds. That is against the rules.
Me: Your tour guide was pretty vague about what we could actually take.
Owner: Kids have to carry their own pumpkins.
Me: You can't expect little children to carry a heavy pumpkin all the way to the car.
Owner: I have to protect my farm.
Me: Then you have to have a way to show that people have paid for the pumpkins.
Owner: My employees don't listen to me.
And on and on it went. I was aching for a fight. I was. I really, really was.
Suddenly, a kind dad walked over and spoke quietly to me.
"You seem to be getting pretty agitated. About pumpkins. They're only pumpkins."
Deflation. Thank God. A deep breath and I was suddenly OK again.
I knew we had been mistreated. But at the same time, I knew this man would never hear what we were trying to tell him. That's what happens to people when things (pumpkins) become more important than people.
At last, I was able to feel some pity for him. We procured a sheet of stickers and walked the entire orchard, looking for our families and putting stickers on all of their pumpkins. We told them that the owner was a little funny about people leaving with his pumpkins and to please make sure to show him the sticker.
Our moods lightened. Thanks to someone who took a chance and called me on my behavior, behavior that probably would have crossed the line to embarrassing in just a few more seconds.
Despite the day's events, I got lots of "Thank You" emails from families who attended the trip. They'd had a wonderful time. They were ignorant about our pumpkin battle with the owner. They went home with tired and happy kids and a couple of pumpkins to boot.
And besides, I know that this orchard will never receive our business again.
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