The Mystery of the Missing Pumpkins
(October 16, 2005)

I'm not much for autumn with the smell of death and all. Flowers dying, summer dying, evening strolls, swims in the pool – all dead as Ham's professionalism. The smell of wet leaves basting in an eavestrough sends me into a coma must like an epileptic with the smell of burnt toast. Brrrr…I’m just not an autumn girl. Besides, orange looks horrible on me!

But I manage to cope. For every wet leaf I smell that makes me want to hibernate until Christmas, there is one smell that makes me want to stay awake. The smell of homemade pumpkin pie.

Luckily for me, I have Mrs. Potiron. Mrs. Potiron is my neighbourhood’s unofficial baker. She bakes tarts, cakes and pies as yummy as, me-oh-my. But of all her treats, her baked goods, none taste better than her pumpkin pies.

Mrs. Potiron ‘s neighbourhood tradition was etched into legend long before I moved here. Whenever a pumpkin is left on her front stoop, she takes it to her kitchen. The next morning, a freshly made pumpkin pie is ready for pickup on her front stoop.

Everyone in the neighbourhood respects the tradition – even the local teenagers. If a pumpkin is on the stoop, no one takes it except Mrs. Potiron. If a pie is on the stoop, no one takes it except for the person who left the original pumpkin.

Unfortunately this all changed this autumn when the pumpkin mystery began.

“I left a pumpkin on the stoop as I walked to the variety store. When I came back it was gone!” became a regular neighbourhood complaint.

After a week of no pies. a neighbourhood meeting/mob was called to order on Mrs. Potiron’s front yard. According to old Mr. Pennyweather, the Mystery of the Pumpkins was the greatest perplextion in the history of the neighbourhood. The greatness of the mystery caused chaos in the meeting.

“Who is stealing the pies?”
“Is it you Frank?”
“No, how dare you!”
“You’ve looked awfully suspicious lately.”
“I’m not stealing pumpkins from an eighty year old’s front stoop.”
“Maybe it’s Mrs. Potiron?”
“Why would she steal pumpkins from her own stoop?”
“No you ninny, maybe she takes the pumpkins inside but forgets to make the pies. She is getting on in years.”
“I may be old but I know when I make pies!”

Unfortunately the only thing the mob could agree on was that the pumpkin snatching started to happen when the new Muslim neighbours, the McAbduls moved in down the street.
“I bet it’s little Rodney McAbdul.”

I could not stand idle as my neighbourhood made unjust and inappropriate American Republican-like assumptions.

“You can’t assume because they happen to be Muslim that there are terrorists.” I preached.

My voice went ignored. Once it was agreed that the main suspect was the McAbduls the mob dispersed – each mob member thinking of plan to catch the criminals in action. I moped back to my home, disappointed in my neighbourhood.

Shortly after arriving home, I was greeted by Mrs. Potiron. It was a rare occurrence as she had never visited me before.  In fact, I had never seen her away from her property.

“Suzy, dear. I want you to help me solve the Mystery of the Missing Pumpkins.”
“Why me?”
“Because I agree with you. I don’t think it is the new neighbours. They have become scapegoats because they are new. That's plain wrong.  Come by my place when night falls. We’ll solve this mystery tonight.”

When night fell, I obeyed my elderly neighbour as I was always taught ‘Elders know best’. I walked up to her front porch to find a pumpkin.

“Suzy, dear in here quick.” Mrs. Potiron whispered to me from behind the curtain in her front window. I again obeyed my elderly neighbour.

“Here have a slice of pumpkin pie. It will help you focus on the stakeout.”

We were prepared to wait all night however by 8 PM the mystery was solved. We heard a high pitched chirping sound approaching the pumpkin bait. It was too loud (and cold) to be crickets. Then we saw the culprit. 

A big fat porcupine waddled its way up the steps.

“A porcupine! I knew it couldn’t be the McAbduls.”
“Shh…Suzy.”

Some may say the only thing more absurd than a Muslim terrorist stealing a pumpkin is a porcupine stealing a pumpkin, but I saw it with my own two pretty purple eyes. The porcupine, with all its spikes, was at the pumpkin!

Mrs. Potiron’s mood changed from a kind sweet old lady to a military commando as we watched the porcupine attempting to pick up the pumpkin. 

“Suzy, fetch me my gun!”
“You have a gun?”
“Of course.” 
“Where?” 
“Beside the front door. Where else would you keep a gun?

Being a non-gun owner, I had no idea where you would keep a gun. I found it odd that the weapon of the house would be kept at the front door – the most likely place a culprit would break in. I would have thought the bedroom as the logical place for a gun but I obeyed my elder. I retrieved the gun from behind the door. 

“Guns Ahoy! This gun is huge!” 
I handed the weapon to my eighty year-old neighbour. 

“This is no average gun. It’s a bazooka, a pumpkin bazooka.”
“A pumpkin bazooka?”
“You’ve heard of a potato gun right?”
“It shoots potatoes?”
“Yes and a pumpkin bazooka shoots pumpkins! Now I need you to collect some pumpkins from my patch in the back yard. If we’re lucky we will have porcupine for a late night snack.”

“We’re having hotdogs?”
“Just go to the patch and hurry! This porcupine won’t wait for my bazooka forever.”

I obeyed my elderly neighbour, as elders know best.

I returned with twelve pumpkins ranging in all sizes. At Mrs. Potiron’s request, I helped her load a pumpkin into the bazooka. She lifted the pumpkin bazooka onto her shoulder as I quietly opened the front door.

“Die, you spiked villain!” 

Mrs. Potiron fired her pumpkin bazooka. The medium sized pumpkin accelerated from the weapon causing Mrs. Potiron to fly back into her house. The ammo (the pumpkin) sailed over the culprit’s head, smashing Mrs. Potiron ‘s stoop’s wooden railing. 

The porcupine slowly waddled in fear away from the stoop and the deadly pumpkin bazooka. Mrs. Potiron recovered from her fall to access the situation.

“To the stoop! There isn’t much time. It’s getting away. Quick Suzy – load me up.”
Again I obeyed my elderly neighbour, as elders know best.

“See you in Hell, you, you porcupine pumpkin eater.”

Another pumpkin protractile and another miss. However this pumpkin shot over Mrs. Potiron’s yard, over the porcupine, across the street, and against the Ferguson front door. The pumpkin flew with such force that the door opened (even though it had been locked).

“Umm… maybe we should stop.”
“Now? We’ve got it on the run. NEVER!”
“You better give me the gun before someone gets hurt.”
“The only thing getting hurt tonight is that rodent.”
"I'm not sure if a porcupine is a rodent."
"Less commentary, more bazooka!"

Mrs. Potiron, my senior citizen, gave me a sudden push. Not expecting a shove from an eighty year old, I stumbled backwards over the railing into Mrs. Potiron’s front bush. 

Mrs. Potiron had turned into a pumpkin bazooka happy elder. She went on a rampage, loading her weapon by herself. Unfortunately her aim never improved. Her pumpkin arsenal was all over the map. 

Her pumpkin damage was evident. Bedroom windows smashed by pumpkins. Big screen television’s smashed by pumpkins exploding through the front windows. Car alarms waling from pumpkins hitting vehicles. Even Mr. Ferguson, who came out to access his front door’s damage, was hit. However I believe it was the sound of the car alarm (and not Mr. Ferguson screaming like a little girl) that finally drove the porcupine away.

But the damage had been done. Mrs. Potiron ‘s path of pumpkin carnage was visible throughout the neighbourhood. Even the McAbduls, four hundred metres down the street had been pumpkinised.

A mob gathered on Mrs. Potiron’s front yard.

“Who is going to fix my window? “
“Who is going to pay for my door?” 
“Who's going to take my husband to the hospital?”

The neighbours disarmed the mad pumpkin pie person as I pulled myself out of her bushes. Mrs. Potiron sensed the mood of the mob and quickly transformed back into the little old lady we all adored.

“Don’t worry everyone. The mystery has been solved.  That porcupine won’t be coming back here for a long time. It’s time to celebrate! Everyone, come inside. I have some emergency pumpkin pies for such an occasion.”

I guess the old proverb is true: Nothing wins over an angry mob like pumpkin pie.