Experience
Experience: I got my head stuck in a pumpkin
I felt a jab of panic as I moved my head around trying to find the right angle. ‘I can’t get it o&ut!’ I roared
Pumpkin carving at Halloween is a family tradition. When I lived in Las Vegas, we had to make do with baseball-size ones from the grocery store. But since we moved to the north-west 10 years ago, we’ve visited a local farm every October. There we ride tractors to the pumpkin patch and I compete with my three brothers and sister to seek out the biggest specimen. My dad has a rule that we have to carry our pumpkins back to the wheelbarrow, and as the eldest child I have an advantage – in 2015 I staggered back with an 85-pounder.
The following year, when I was 16, it was hard to tell whether my prize or the one chosen by my 14-year-old brother, Jason, was the winner. Unfortunately we neglected to weigh them before scooping out their innards, but I was determined to prove my point. All five of us were hard at work at the kitchen table, with my mom filming the annual ritual. I’m unsure now why I thought forcing my head inside the pumpkin would settle the matter, but it seemed to make perfect sense at the time.
With the pumpkin resting on the table, hole uppermost, I leaned over and pressed my crown against the opening. At first I got jammed just above my eyes and then, as I leant into my task, unwilling to quit, my nose briefly prevented entry. Then in it popped: my whole head, like a cork forced into a bottle. I was able to straighten up, triumphantly, with the gigantic squash resting on my shoulders.
My exultation was short-lived. The pumpkin was heavy. “I’m going to set it down, now,” I said, and with Jason helping to support its weight, I bent back over the table to give it somewhere to rest. It was only when I tried to remove my head that I realised getting out was going to be less straightforward than getting in. The knot of my ponytail caught against the rim when I tried to pull out, as did the underside of my jaw. When I pulled my chin into my neck, my nose got in the way instead. I felt a jab of panic as I braced against the table and moved my head around trying to find the right angle, but it was no use. “I can’t get it out!” I roared, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. The muffled voices from outside were oddly calming, though – Mom unruffled and amused, Jason giving advice, my 10-year-old brother, Austin, singing a song I couldn’t make out. There was enough space around my neck to let a little light in and, fortunately, I’ve always liked the smell of pumpkin. My bellowing provoked little sympathy. “Don’t use up all your oxygen,” Mom suggested.
Dad was summoned – less, it seemed, in expectation of practical help than to make sure he didn’t miss out on the spectacle. I heard him propose calling the fire department. “Stay tuned,” said Mom; she’d mentioned she was going to upload the video to Facebook, but it was only then I realised she’d been filming the whole time. I was stuck for five or six minutes though it felt much, much longer. The video cuts before my rescue – Dad got me to push my head farther into the pumpkin so Mom could reach in and undo the rubber band round my ponytail. I emerged with squash-conditioned hair, a sore chin and my nose plugged with pulp.
That Facebook video went up the Monday before Halloween, and by the end of that day it had over 1,000 views. People asked Mom to put it on YouTube, and by Wednesday morning we were getting 5am calls from TV breakfast shows and then the international media – the video started racking up hundreds of thousands of views. When I went on a youth camp, I was recognised by children I’d never met. The pumpkin also became a minor celebrity. Passersby and trick-or-treaters would knock and ask, “Which is Rachel’s pumpkin?” before taking selfies with it.
Although our pumpkin carving the following year was a more sedate affair, I wouldn’t say I learned my lesson. A few months later I squeezed myself into a laundry basket during a game of hide-and-seek and became hopelessly jammed. It was Dad who responded to my cries for help. Inevitably, I was kept waiting for a while – first he had to look for the video camera.
