Gourd Championship

I scrambled up the rough pine slats of a low produce crate and marched straight into a colourful mound of autumn squash. One little green-and-orange striped gourd had a twisted, bone-dry stem that practically begged to be used as a trophy handle. I planted my blue shoes deep into the cedar wood shavings, gripped that curly stalk with both hands, and gave it an almighty heave. The heavy little melon tipped back with a soft, hollow thud, rolling just enough to settle into a neat groove. With one quick hop, I scrambled onto its bumpy crown and threw both hands in the air. The market crowd might be busy shopping, but I just claimed the championship prize!