Once upon a time there was a lovely southern mother who lived by family traditions. She thought they were important for children to have as they grew into adults. One of their traditions each October was to go to the local pumpkin farm, to pick out pumpkins for carving. Even after the lovely mother’s husband decided not to be so lovely, they still carried on the tradition, including the unlovely father to keep the tradition true. The lovely mother readied herself and her lovely children and they set off to the pumpkin farm to meet the unlovely father, hoping for a lovely time. Magically the time was mostly lovely only disturbed, just a little, by the unlovely father and his grumbling stomach. He, most of the day, appeared to be lovely, which was lovely for their lovely children. After inspecting dozens of pumkins; big and small, orange and green, they all picked out perfect pumpkins from the large pumpkin field. It was lovely. The lovely tradition once more was a success. The lovely mother was pleased.
Three days later, the lovely mother was admiring the lovely pumpkins, all waiting to be carved, when she noticed one pumpkin didn’t look so lovely anymore. HER perfect pumpkin was leaning so she turned it over and found it had started to rot. The lovely mother tilted her head and said, “son of a bitch!” Which I think we can all agree, wasn’t so lovely. Her tradition had failed her and once again she picked something rotten. She had to look at this as a lesson but what that was she didn’t know yet. What she did know was she was now pumpkinless. She thought that sucked.
And that, my dears, is the tale of the rotten pumpkin. What a bitch.