At Viveros Monjarama on a late Sunday afternoon, the crisp autumn air drifts over the pumpkin patch just beyond the fog of Madrid. Orange pumpkins with hand-drawn faces decorate the small building at the entrance. A woman in a green apron, decorated with tiny pumpkin prints, greets visitors warmly, wishing them luck and pointing them toward the wheelbarrows.
The wheelbarrows, rustic and worn, show years of use, having carried many pumpkins through the different seasons. Three children rush ahead, feet kicking up dirt as they race toward the field. Behind them, their parents push an empty wheelbarrow along the uneven path, navigating the bumps toward the patch. People spread out across the field, carefully searching among rows of pumpkins, each on the hunt for the ideal one.
The patch, on a family-run farm 19 kilometers from Madrid, is a mixture of vibrant orange pumpkins and decaying ones. The scent of rotting pumpkins hangs in the air, strong and earthy. Those walking through the field tread carefully to avoid stepping on the squashed, moldy ones scattered on the ground. Laughter and the shrieks of children echo through the air as families hold up their finds, proudly displaying the pumpkins.
In one group, a grandfather pushes a wheelbarrow loaded with small pumpkins, his pace slow and steady as he heads back to the building. At the entrance, he lifts each pumpkin, one by one, onto the scale. The woman in the green apron, her smile never fading, comments on how perfect each pumpkin is, saying, “Esas calabazas son muy bonitas, perfectas para decorar.” The family, smiling and with arms full of pumpkins, makes their way toward the exit, their hunt successful.
As the sun begins to lower, the laughter and energy remain in the air, carried by the breeze and the lingering scent of harvest. The pumpkin patch slowly empties, and the wheelbarrows are returned to their uniform positions, scattered neatly in a designated area, left to rest, ready to carry another load of pumpkins for the next eager family. As cars empty out of the makeshift dirt parking lot, a trail of dust is left behind.
