The Real Pumpkin Deal

Apple juice is a time machine. Whenever you want a taste of preschool panic, the feeling of having been dropped off at daycare and wondering if you’ll ever get to go home, if you’ll ever not feel alone, if anything will ever be okay again, pick up some apple juice. Even better on a plane. The confined space makes the anxiety memories more vivid. And, it’s free.

I’ve been walking around Washington, D.C., this afternoon in a young professional neighborhood. At least a quarter of the people here are Y2K goths. Another quarter are 23-year-old think tank employees. The remaining half are regular Washingtonians who are taxed but not represented.

This week was pumpkin-centric, even without a single pumpkin-essenced drink. Casey, Hayden, Henry, Ellie and I went straight to the source, the real thing, at a pumpkin patch in Michigan. The elderly owner of the patch gave us a hayride tour of his fields and vineyards. He normally grows for Welch’s grape juice, but “Welch’s didn’t get any of ’em” this year, he said, because of a freeze. He was so frail that I thought about what we might do if he slumped over behind the John Deere wheel. He said he’s been trying to give up the fall harvest festivities for ten years but his grandkids force him to keep it going. We paid him for pumpkins in cash and he charmingly smiled.

Back in Chicago we cut those pumpkins up with Chet, Kerry, Henry, Hayden, and Max. I carved a rudimentary blocky face in mine. Casey carved the whole damn cover of Neil Young On the Beach. She’s a gifted pumpkin (and otherwise) artist.

The day before the patch, Casey and I did our first duo vinyl DJ set at our friends Michael and Penny’s new bar, Out There. Casey’s seasoned; it was my first time. It’s so fun to DJ together. Maybe someone wants to book us to play classic rock, soul, funk and folk records at their party or bar somewhere, someday?!

Waxahatchee plays Philly Music Fest on Tuesday (sold out!). When I get home, I’m heading straight into Cosmic Country Showcase week in Chicago. Come see us play at Color Club. It’s always fun. A million great musicians, comedians, and, this time, even a haunted house. Tickets.

Thanks for being here. I hope you’re well. Shit is very hard, always, but distant suffering flared badly this week, and the sun is leaving. Stay close.

My family gratefully accepts well wishes for my grandpa/zaid, Peter, better known to client-viewers of The Tweedy Show as Pedrobot, who’s been in the hospital. Zaid is the strongest person I know and still, seriously, literally sharper in memory than me. We love him so so so much.

—Spooncer

Sammy on Yom Kippur.