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Pumpkin Thief

December 1, 2008

The rumors are true. I am a thief. Well, was a thief – I have now left my thieving days behind me. But when I was five years old, you had better believe that I was full of thievery.

We spent many autumn days as a family at Huber’s Orchard & Winery (emphasis on the orchard part), feeding animals at the petting zoo, playing on the big playground, and eating in the family restaurant. After one such fun afternoon, we headed to the car. It must have been prime pumpkin season, because the way to the parking lot was lined with wagons of pumpkins – pumpkins of all sizes. I was particularly intrigued by the itty bitty ones, which looked like this:

The pumpkin that drew me into crime

The pumpkin that drew me into crime

The pumpkin was little enough and cute enough to persuade me to reach out while no one was looking and nab it. I stuffed it right into the pocket of my purple corduroys. Turns out, I was pretty good at this thief business.

Everything was great until I got home and realized that there really is no place to display a stolen pumpkin. So, I did the sensible thing and hid the pumpkin in a drawer. To the victor go the spoils!

My plan worked beautifully until one day Mom came into my room looking for a hair band and delved right into the back of the pumpkin drawer. I will never forget the look she cast me when she pulled the cute little pumpkin out of the drawer and asked me, “Sarah, where did you get this?”

At this point, I had drawn my knees up into a cowering position at the farthest corner of my bed, knowing I was doomed. I confessed everything, of course – if Mom had given you that look, you’d confess too. My punishment? I had to go back to the orchard with Mom a couple of days later to return the pumpkin and ask for forgiveness.

Little did I know, Mom had called ahead to the owner of Huber’s Orchard to inform her of the situation and to let her know that I would be coming to apologize. Oh, and that the owner should be sure not to go too easy on me. Thanks, Mom.

Suffice it to say, the restaurant where we found the owner and where I asked her forgiveness soon became a dramatic stage. Between my tearful confession and the owner’s sermon-like response about God’s forgiveness, we had a room full of a bunch of ladies crying over their deep fried dinner rolls and garden salads. Everyone was crying. And it worked, too, because I haven’t stolen since. Again I say, thanks, Mom.

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2 comments

  1. “And it worked, too, because I haven’t stolen since.”

    Incorrect. You stole John’s heart. Now you’re a thief and a liar.


  2. Yeah, I have decided not to count that one. So, I suppose that makes me a thief, a liar and a cheater.



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