Corncobs In My Britches

Once upon a September evening, a certain Granny Woman laced up her knee-high rubber boots like she was suiting up for battle. Not a battle with men, nor beasts, but with a field of grass tall enough to hide a small cow. Armed with nothing but garden shears and pure stubbornness, she tromped out in search of round orange treasure.

She stomped and shuffled through the thicket, cussing under her breath at every unseen briar and hidden hole, until she spotted her quarry: pumpkins. Not one or two, but a whole army of them, lying low like soldiers in camouflage.

“Reckon you ain’t walking out on your own,” she said, and scooped three at a time, straining and staggering like a mule with bad knees. Up the hill she crawled, pumpkins bouncing against her ribs, depositing them proudly near the road before marching back for more.

By the time the last gourd was hauled, her body had declared mutiny. Every peripheral muscle—those little freeloaders that usually nap during daily chores—were wide awake and hollerin’, “Ma’am, what the hell?!”

But she wasn’t done yet. No, she strutted back to fetch the 4×4, loaded her pumpkin brood, and hauled them home like a harvest queen. She lined them up on the porch steps, lit by the soft glow of autumn lamps, a rainbow of orange, green, and ghostly white.

They sat there smug, as if to say, “Yes, we broke you, but look how fine we shine.”

And that’s when the true comedy began. The pumpkin queen plopped into her chair, strapped her sore legs into what looked like NASA astronaut boots, and hit the “inflate” button. The contraption came to life, squeezing and pulsing like two mechanical possums trying to hug her shins.

From the outside, it looked like Granny Woman had just finished wrestling gourds in the holler and was now preparing for lift-off to the moon. From the inside, she muttered, “Lord, tomorrow I’ll walk like I’ve got corncobs in my britches.”

And the pumpkins? They just smirked from the porch, knowing full well they’d won this round.

So if you hear a creak tomorrow, don’t go blaming my porch boards.
That’s just me, shuffling around with corncobs in my britches, grinning at my pumpkin army.