The Pumpkin That Crossed the Fence
In late summer, a green vine crept out of Dara's garden, squeezed through a gap in the fence, and began to spread across Wes's lawn. On the end of the vine, a small pumpkin swelled up, and by October it was as big as a beach ball.
"That's my pumpkin," said Dara. "The vine comes from my garden. I planted the seeds."
"It's sitting on my lawn," said Wes. "My sprinkler has watered it all month."
Neither one would budge. They stood on opposite sides of the fence and glared. The pumpkin sat in the middle like a fat orange judge.
Wes's grandmother leaned out of the kitchen window. "Seems to me," she said, "this pumpkin had help from both of you. Your seeds got it started, Dara. Your sprinkler helped it grow, Wes."
Wes looked at Dara. Dara looked at Wes. It was hard to argue with that.
They carved it together on a picnic table, with Wes drawing the face and Dara scooping the inside. At dusk, they set the glowing pumpkin right at the gap in the fence, so its crooked grin faced both houses. Then they roasted the seeds and split them in half, one pile for each side of the fence.