The story of the Honda and the Purloined Pumpkin is way too long to tell at once. There's a dedicated following of what I call "Pumpkin Stories" over on Voat. They are long and colorful, as such was an interesting time in my life. It starts like many good stories do, with a woman. I've never been big on long-term relationships, but I'd been with this one for a while. It turned out, she was insane. Granted, I usually admire that trait in the women I sleep with - but this was truly insane. She was a kleptomaniac, among other things. What is baffling is that I actually have a few bucks and there was absolutely no reason for her to steal. But, steal she did... I'll save that for another time, but let's just assume she was insane. After our breakup, I bought a used 1988 Honda Accord LX and went over it with a fine-tooth comb. It was my passion for a couple of weeks and I buried myself in an engine rebuild, replacing most of the running gear, and giving it near-full restoration. Then, I decided I'd take it for a drive. It drove well and I was trying to get over my relationship. I was drinking and drugging quite heavily. Sad, but true. I'd always been fond of drink and drug, and had been pretty functional at both. After I retired, it's like my brain realized I no longer had to be functional - so it wasn't. I was no longer a functioning drinker and user. No, no I was not! But, in my defense, I had a really good time. So, I went back to my house, packed a few things and threw a couple of guitars into the car. I figured I'd be gone for a few days and that I didn't need to tell anyone. So, I didn't. As I was leaving the State of Maine, I turned that car right around and drove all the way back to an area outside of Farmington, Maine. Why? Well, I have a buddy with a "brown thumb." It's the opposite of a green thumb. Basically, anything he tried to grow (and he tried to grow many things) came out stunted or died long before fruiting. His attempts at growing a garden and weed are comical to the point where one might assume my recounting the tales were me being dishonest. They are not works of fiction, he's just really that bad at growing stuff. He had a pumpkin. It was maybe 6" across. He was very, very proud of his pumpkin. He extolled the virtues of the pumpkin. He told us of his growing techniques, his fertilizer use, and how he was going to decorate the pumpkin for Halloween and make a pie. I wish I could say this a better way, but the reality is that I turned around and drove the two hours back to his house where I promptly stole his pumpkin. I prefer the term kidnapped, as you'll later understand, but the reality is that it was a purloined pumpkin and I'd stolen it. He did not know this. I then stopped at a store and bought a burner phone, a bunch of minutes, a black magic marker, and a bandanna. I used those to dress up the purloined pumpkin as a pirate. I'd stop, not long after, and outfit him with little plastic swords that I'd acquired from drinks at a Chinese restaurant. For the next six months, I drove (more or less at random) around the continental United States. Pumpkin only survived for about four months, but he was a wonderful travel companion. Along my way of rediscovering Americana, I took many pictures of my stolen pumpkin and sent them to the original owner of the pumpkin. I used the above mentioned burner phone for this and refused to tell him who I was - and he never guessed. Later, after returning, I'd tell him about my deeds and, though it took some time, he forgave me and was understanding of my plight. I went to tourist attractions, cheesy roadside attractions, monuments, fine dining, among other things. I'd take pictures of pumpkin in those various settings and send them back to the original owner of the pumpkin. Sometimes, I'd demand ransom. Other times, I'd say I was a liberated pumpkin and had gone off to live a life of piracy. I sent him pictures of the pumpkin in front of things like Niagara Falls, from the top of the Empire State Building, visiting alligators in the Florida swamps, sitting atop a mechanical bull in a Texas bar, posing with aliens in Roswell, hanging out with his new best friend "Corn" in Iowa, the top of the arch in St. Louis, etc... Basically, everywhere I went - so too went Pumpkin. We had grand adventures. Pumpkin and I sang duets (he had a pretty sweet falsetto), told each other bawdy jokes, and laughed until our sides hurt. I'm pretty sure Pumpkin was actually a lush. I'd wake up and find my booze and stash missing or depleted. I don't recall drinking or using that much, so the only logical conclusion is that Pumpkin was sneaking booze and drugs while I was sleeping! In six months, I'd put some 26,000 miles on the car and suffer no major mechanical malfunctions. We traveled the country from top to bottom and side to side - multiple times. Pumpkin and I had a great trip and there's many stories of our grand adventure. What happened to Pumpkin? He died. He drank too much and stayed in the car one night while I stopped in Oklahoma to get off the road because the idiot truckers were trying to kill everyone during an ice storm. I had no problems driving, but the idiots there can't drive in snow or ice. The truckers were even worse - and this was a big storm and lots of people were getting hurt or killed in accidents. We'd decided it'd be safer to just find a hotel and hole up there for a while. Well, Pumpkin was exceedingly intoxicated and stayed in the car. He knew enough to get into my pocket - but chose not to. During the night, he froze. His head got soft. Yeah, he got soft in the head and it wasn't long before his brain was mostly full of mush and he started to smell funny. It's his fault for not getting into my pocket and spending the night in the car. Anyhow, we toured a while longer but he got less and less intelligent and started to smell pretty bad. He'd really liked the Floridian alligators so I drove all the way back across the country to give him a proper burial. By that, I mean I fed him to the 'gators. They didn't actually eat him. One snapped at him, breaking him open, and then he spit him out. Another alligator tried a bite but was having none of it. I drove down Alligator Highway, stopped, and threw him at the alligators. I did this while a bunch of Japanese tourists stared on in horror. They looked even more confused as I explained that doing so was a long-lived American custom and was how we buried our pumpkins. I don't think they quite respected our traditions, but they did take a few pictures and left. I just don't think they get American values? I tried telling them that it was the same way my father, and his father before that, had buried their pumpkins - but they wanted nothing to do with it. And, between those two events are a number of stories that involve myself, an '88 Accord, a road less-traveled, and a purloined pumpkin.