Pumpkins, Pie, and Proposals

 If you lived in a small frontier town in the late 1800s, autumn wasn’t just about harvest chores and wood-stacking—it was prime courting season. After all, once the fields were cleared and the larders filled, there was finally time for a little fun. And in a sweet Americana world, fun often meant food, fellowship… and maybe a few furtive glances across the barn floor.

Pumpkin socials were one such event. The ladies of the town would bake pies, roast seeds, and turn every gourd in sight into something edible or decorative. The men, conveniently, would show up to “help carry heavy things.” Somehow those heavy things always ended up near the dessert table.  Between bites of pie, couples would wander the lantern-lit square or take a buggy ride under the harvest moon. Many a lifelong romance began with a shared slice of pumpkin pie and a bashful smile.

And then there were the apple-paring parties, where young folks would gather to peel apples

for drying or cider-making. Legend had it, if a girl tossed her apple peel over her shoulder, the way it landed would spell the initials of her future husband. Somehow, every girl’s peel conveniently twisted into J for Jed, Jake, Joshua, Joseph, Jack... you get the picture. It made any man whose name started with "J" one of the most eligible bachelors in town.

Harvest dances rounded out the season. Barns were swept clean, fiddles tuned, and candles set glowing in jars. The music wasn’t fancy, but the laughter was genuine. Between reels, a fellow might ask if he could see a lady home. If she said yes, the whole town knew there’d be another dance in their future, and maybe a wedding, too.

Life was simple then, but never dull. Work was hard, love was sweeter for it, and every pumpkin, pie, and proposal was part of the great adventure of building a life together.

As an author, I love capturing that blend of innocence and grit. The moments when two people, elbow-deep in flour or apples, realize that home isn’t a place at all. It’s a person.

So the next time you see a pumpkin pie cooling on your windowsill, take a deep breath, smile, and remember: somewhere in the pages of a sweet historical romance, another love story is just beginning.

Until Next Time,

Kit Morgan