The Strange Grave of Mikey Dunbar by Jeremy John

Author:Jeremy John
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press

OUR LITTLE PUMPKIN PATCH

KEN WAS A GRUMPY OLD man. Never rude, but he rarely smiled and never talked. He’d work all day at his little booth at the farmers’ market and never say a single word. Each weekend hundreds of people would walk past, dozens would stop and buy his vegetables, and he’d conduct each transaction with just a few nods and grunts. He’d sell everything he had each and every weekend and never say a word.

Luckily, his wife talked enough for the both of them. Dot was a plump and pleasant old lady. She’d chat with each and every person who walked by their booth at the farmers’ market. It didn’t matter if they were customers or just passing by, she loved to chat. If they were customers, she’d chat them up about the weather and why it’s looking like a good season for corn. If they were just passing by, she’d offer them a cherry to sample, which would usually turn that passerby into a customer.

She baked cookies and brought them to the farmers’ market, too. Not to sell, just to give away whenever kids came by. She’d spot a mom with a stroller or a dad pulling a wagon full of kids and then, quick as a flash, she’d grab her tin of homemade cookies and head into the crowd to offer the kids some chocolate chip cookies that she had made just that morning. She’d say things to them like “sweetie” and “dearie” and “you look just like an angel.”

The parents never said no. Dot was a chubby-cheeked, grey-haired little old lady. Only about five feet tall and probably just as wide. Each Sunday at the farmers’ market, she wore a red-and-white checkered apron over her cornflower-blue dress. She was the perfect picture of the sweet little old lady, and every parent who looked at her chubby pink face knew that they had nothing to worry about.

Ken was the opposite, not just in personality but in appearance, too. About as thin as a man could be, with hunched shoulders and long arms that were always crossed in front of his chest. If he wasn’t silently bagging produce for a customer, he was as far back from the vegetable stand as he could be. Leaning against the bumper of their old truck with his arms crossed and head down. Unlike his wife’s skin, which was pink and plump, his was wrinkled, tanned, and tough. Years of labour in the fields had left his skin dry and worn; years of digging in the dirt and fixing old tractors meant that his hands were permanently stained. Everything about him, his appearance, his posture, the permanent frown on his creased face, said he did not want to talk. But that never stopped people from trying, after all, at the farmers’ market he was a bit of a celebrity.

Every year at the end of the season, there was a huge festival and Ken’s pumpkins were always the biggest attraction. Literally. The

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