Faking Fall

It seems sacrilege to pick pumpkins in a place that does not proffer any autumnal promise: No crunchy leaves to rake. No steamy ciders to sip. No sweaters need one don. 

Rightly so. Let's be honest- Everyone here is sun kissed-tan and the only nod to the seasonal nuance of an island "fall" is Starbuck's Pumpkin Spice Latte. . . and even that seems a bit cheeky. However, without the sustenance of tradition, I would still be burning my Spring Bouquet Yankee candle and sipping sweet ice-tea like it was a Georgia July.  So, fortified with a camera and cash, we caravanned out to the Waimanalo Country Farm for a morning of hay-riding, pumpkin painting, corn-mazing, and animal feeding revelry. To Eowyn's delight, it was a like a "Girl's Morning Out" on the rural town, since every girlfriend with whom she is presently acquainted rendezvoused at this agrarian hotspot.

Personally, I don't like farms. Period. I don't like the way they smell or the dirt they impress upon you. Admittedly, my confession is borderline treasonous, since my conservative heritage compels tribute to the soil toilers whose patriotism built this great land we love. And sincerely, I thank them. I just don't want to breathe the air perfumed by live stock  manure. Apparently, Eowyn shares my disposition towards farm living and she literally ran from the animals her pre-paid ticket allowed her to feed.  Poor Jason; it was always his dream to be a gentleman farmer in his Allen Edmond loafers and Brooks Brother's Polos. Perhaps he would fulfilled that fantasy if he had found a BMW tractor.

And Caid. Oh sweet, vexing Caid. Suffice to say, we debated leaving him in the goat's feeding trough.  But did not.