A story of Ye Olde Reed, from Mark Mclean ’70
One Halloween, back in the late sixties, several of us from our dorm set out in search of something to do. We soon found ourselves in the company of some other Reedies who were driving a station wagon full of pumpkins. (In those days, any pumpkins left unharvested by Halloween were considered up for grabs.) We sought out creative and novel applications for those pumpkins. Someone tossed one out the window as we sped down 122nd, which was (still is?) one long used car lot. A salesman was trying to make a late night sale to a respectable looking middle aged couple. The most prominent feature of the car in question was hubcaps that would have felt quite at home in Ben Hur’s chariot race. We can only speculate as to how the salesman’s pitch was affected by the sight of a pumpkin bounding across the sidewalk at near-relativistic velocity, finally coming to rest firmly impaled on the left front hubcap of the car.
There were assorted alarums and excursions in the night, including a moment of stark terror when a poorly aimed pumpkin became lodged firmly in the undercarriage of a police car. The officer apparently was unaware of this, and, to our great relief, drove off, leaving a long trail of shredded pumpkin on the pavement.
Eventually, our exhaustive research into the pointless and annoying deeds which can be performed using pumpkins was completed, the hour was late, and we still had a lot of pumpkins to get rid of. It was decided that the only politically correct solution to the problem was to unload the cargo at the front door of our friendly local draft board. Having accomplished that, we made good our escape, and went in search of what was left of a good night’s sleep.
The next evening, the front steps of the draft board appeared on the evening news. All was as we had left it, except that some dufus or dufi unknown had reduced the pumpkins, in situ, to a huge mound of pie filling. The final verdict on this episode was delivered by the local news anchorman, who solemnly intoned, “It’s the work of militants”.
Mark Mclean, class of 1964