The Seed Swap and the Squash Named Accident
I traded seeds at the library swap, spilled the labels, planted every packet in one bed and grew a prize squash nobody could name.
Every February the library in town hosts a seed swap. People bring envelopes of beans, tomatoes, peppers and squash, spread them on long tables and trade stories along with them. I have gone for twenty years. I always come home with more than I give.
This year I came home with eleven kinds of squash seed. I did not mean to. Somebody pressed a little paper packet in my hand and said, 'Try this one, it is wonderful,' and then somebody else said the same, and by the end I had a shoebox full. I labeled every packet carefully in pencil. Then I spilled the shoebox on the kitchen floor, and my careful labels went where careful labels go.
I planted them anyway, all in one long bed, on the theory that surprises are good for the soul. The vines came up in June and ran everywhere. By August they had crossed fences, climbed the arbor and knitted themselves into a single green blanket. Bees were thrilled. I was less sure.
The fruit that came out of the tangle was something else entirely. It was the size of a bowling ball, striped green and orange like a beach towel, with a stem like a gnarled finger. When I cut one open, the flesh was deep gold and smelled of vanilla and toast. I cooked it down for pie, and I swear the pie won a blue ribbon at the county fair under the category 'Squash, Other.'
The judge asked what variety it was. I said, 'It was an accident.' She wrote that on the card. By the next February, every neighbor had asked for seeds, and the library had a new table labeled 'Accident.' I have a note about it in the small farm files, and the whole tale appears on farm.FM beside a photo of the squash looking smug.