The author, John Marek, is a writer and executive director of the Anson Economic Development Partnership.
Any group of bored college students can come up with stupendously dumb ways to spend a Saturday night, but in the fall of 1982 my Ohio University buddies and I took it to the next level, deciding it would be an awesome idea to drive an hour to Circleville, Ohio, to attend the Circleville Pumpkin Show.
A famous case study in group dynamics known as the “Abilene Paradox” describes how a group can decide to take an action that none of the individual members is in favor of. The Pumpkin Show decision was sort of like that, except one group member was solidly behind it.
Mark had grown up in the town of Kingston, a few miles south of Circleville, and attending the Pumpkin Show had been an annual tradition for his family. He suggested it was “lots of fun,” with food (so what) and games (big deal) and hordes of hot girls wandering the pumpkin-drenched streets looking to hook up … so … way to sell it, Mark!
The drive to Circleville was typical for that part of Ohio; narrow roads winding through acres of farmland punctuated every dozen miles by a tiny town with a single stoplight. The troops were pretty restless by the time we pulled up to the Pumpkin Show parking lot, where a prime spot could be acquired for the low, low price of $3. Not wanting to waste our precious monetary resources on something as unfulfilling as parking, though, we drove around until we found a dark alley where we could stash the car free of charge.
If you have attended any small-town produce-based street festival, you have a pretty good idea of what the Pumpkin Show was about. The downtown was closed off and a couple dozen booths featuring fall-themed crafts and pumpkin-based foods lined the thoroughfare. Folks walked the streets absently, stuffing cotton candy in their mouths or crunching on the hard shells of candy apples. Fortunately, there was a beer tent; unfortunately, the beer was priced for sipping, and while there were some cute girls in attendance, the vast majority of them appeared to be a few birthday cakes shy of, shall we say, viability.
That left the pumpkins. The event is called the Pumpkin SHOW for a reason. There were many pumpkins on display, including the Grand Pumpkin, the largest of them all!
It turns out that once a pumpkin reaches 100 pounds or so, it begins to lose its traditional shape and color, and by the time it approaches four digits, like the 1982 Grand Pumpkin, it resembles Jaba the Hut more closely than Jack o’Lantern. Or, to quote my buddy Rich, “Well, that’s kind of anti-climactic.”
And here’s a helpful hint for all you festival-goers; if you’re going to hide your car down a dark alley, it’s important – no, imperative – that you make note of exactly where that alley is located, otherwise you might spend an hour wandering the wretched backstreets of a mid-size Ohio town.
“I could have sworn it was right next to an empty storefront.”
“Uhm, they’re all empty storefronts.”
On the drive back to Athens, we decided, one-and-all, to never speak of that night again, and to a man, we have kept that vow. Except it turns out the statute of limitations on pumpkin voyeurism is 40 years, and so today, Oct. 18, 2022, the truth can finally be told!