On a gravel road I frequent, someone has left pumpkins, placed them carefully along the shoulder at intervals just distant enough from one another that by the time I happen upon the next, I’ve nearly forgotten about the last. The pleasure I derive from the them is amplified by the knowledge that someone thought to do this, because I can think of no other reason for placing pumpkins by the side of the road if not to tickle the fancy of passersby, and therefore it seems to me an act of kindness and generosity of the purest sort, with no chance for recognition or reciprocity.
Shortly after the last pumpkin I pass a lake, now frozen over, the ice covered by a dusting of new-fallen snow. A yellow dog is running across the frozen water, tail and head high, no human in sight. Just the dog, the snow-covered ice, the orange orb of that final pumpkin disappearing into the rear view mirror, and I know that I am lucky to have come this way.
It is almost the end of another year, and I would like to thank you for reading here. Thank you.