It's that time of year again when pumpkin trees, engorged from the November rain, unfurl their branches and drop fresh pumpkins filled with tender meat-pulp for us to paint and decorate and sometimes eat. You know, autumn, where we adorn ourselves with flannel and head into the woods to shoot the pumpkin spawn for harvest. Tradition.
Our household prefers to buy pumpkin already headed and gutted, so we planned a trip into town.
The Miata Trip on this chilly day began with the usual wipe down in the garage. Driving eastward, we picked up speed, meandering between groves, down and up a hill, before revealing Reeve's Family Farm.
The Miata, with just the most ridiculous grin, garnered compliments and thumbs up from other shoppers as we parked in the grass. Grass parking is beneath a sports car like this, but it was for a good cause: neat photos and pumpkin spice donuts with cider.
An excellent combination.
This would be a great time to show photos of said treats, but hey, sometimes a treat is only for me.
After that, we zipped up the highway to another farmer's market, the name of which I forget, but what's important is that they had a goddamn goat in the shop.
Yeah, that's right, a musky goat was just there, in the storefront, looking at us quizzically. Well, I say that, but with his unfamiliar, rectangular pupils, I couldn't figure him out.
We learned what his name was (it was something absurd like Gilbert), bought some apples that we later learned were the World's Sandiest, and then rushed back onto the highway.
I wonder if Gilbert thought of us. Was he even real?
Anyway, we crossed into Dallas and made it to Central Market. Central Market is like HEB going back to school and getting a doctorate's in mathematics, and then became a world class accountant after beating all the other accountants in a World Accountant Tournament. It's that very fancy, and I know what I am talking about because Central Market has live music Friday nights and I once saw seven whole Range Rovers in parking lot there. Seven!
So imagine my surprise when, as I exited the car, under the glow of the western sky, a red NA Miata arrived like an emissary of the sun. Its magnetic aura, the likes of which no mortal or ND could hope to match, drew no eyes but my own. To behold such a rare, yet humble, example is something that requires years of study, self-denial, and self-flagellation.
I was ready. The car pulled in right next to mine.
Hark! Fate had chosen me!
I fell to my knees and wept. I wept at the loafers of this middle aged, fair skinned man. I could see the wisps of blond hairs disappearing under his khaki shorts. Clearly, this Miata Man was heaven-sent.
Poor James stood by as Miata Man and I engaged in rich conversation. He did not believe me when I told him the ND is shorter in length than the NA, but that is okay. I found room to forgive him since.
He told me the story of how he bought it and, truly, had a very "whatever" vibe about the whole thing that flies in the face of this part of the story, so I'll move on and tell you we finished the chat and he headed into the store.
I snapped this photo.
Then, this scholar of a man, adorned with the type of sunglasses cops wear, returned and graciously allowed me to pop the headlamps.
I reached over the tiny door and toggled the switch to reveal the cutest, goofiest car face to ever grace American roads.
My dudes, I haven't popped headlights since my 1994 Mitsubishi 3000GT was my daily, so I snapped my photos. How can I continue on knowing I'll never reach this level of euphoria again?
No, obviously.
Though, with the same quiet confidence as when he arrived, my new Miata acquaintance faded into the stacked rows of free range apples and non-GMO soaps, never to be seen again. He probably died in there, who knows?
I wonder if he thought of me, as James and I left the store.
"No, probably not," James said.
"Yeah," I said. "He probably died in there."
Rounding out the trip, James and I visited a Spring Creek BBQ. Their BBQ isn't top-tier, but you know what? It has what I call pre-pandemic (lower) pricing and it's solid 'cue.
The BBQ-Man On Duty even mixed me up a spicy BBQ sauce for my brisket. How kind, right? So delightful was the meal, that the juicy meats and butter-soaked rolls restored my soul with the life dew it needed to continue on.
We left, and then, BAM!
No, I wasn't in a car wreck. Goodness gracious, could you imagine?
Then I'd really just die.
No, what happened is we met a Lincoln Mark 8 parked at the back of the restaurant. Just look at this thing's maroon, soap bar shape. It's restrained yet stands out against the dim parking lot.
We headed home, tired but inspired, readying to dig into a pumpkin pie so tender you could eat it with a spoon.
*This post was written by someone that had not slept in 24 hrs. So tired that I am slowly turning into a car. Running on fumes.*
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