Pumpkin Brains, Forever by Tony Noland
Pumpkin Brains, Forever
by Tony Noland
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Eight eyes look up at the knife, watch it go back and forth, steel on steel. Two eyes look down, watching the children.
Shhhhhhhhick. Shhhhhhhhick. Shhhhhhhhick.
The knife is already sharp. The children know this. All of his knives are kept sharp.
Shhhhhhhhick. Shhhhhhhhick. Shhhhhhhhick.
The honing brings the blade to an edge that will pass like through flesh like a whisper through a crowd. He is manipulating them, forcing them to watch and wait. They know this, having gone through this ritual many times before. And yet, he is a master at this, and they are helpless, caught up in the moment. They lean forward, eager for the cutting to begin, thrilling at the mounting tension.
He puts down the sharpening steel, setting it off to the side, out of the way. He touches his thumb to the edge. Ten inches long and gleaming blackly, the high-carbon steel is as sharp as he can make it. He looks down to the children and nods. They all sigh with anticipation. The oldest child reaches out his hand and receives the oiled walnut handle. It's balance is perfect, but this is the first time he has been given this honor.
With his left hand, the man holds the big pumpkin steady. With his right, he guides the boy's hand, positions the tip of the blade a few inches away from the stem. Without any assistance, the weight of the knife pushes the tip down into the flesh.
The man stops the knife.
"Do you know what this is called?" he says. "This place where we're cutting?"
"The inflection point," they all respond together, except the littlest one, who, though coached by her siblings, is a beat behind the others, and who misspeaks it as, "infection point".
"Very good," he says. "And what is an inflection point?"
"It's where the curve curves the other way," the oldest child says, "come ON, Dad, not now, let's just carve it!" As the oldest, he has the most Halloween experience of all the children. For him, as for them all, holidays come with math lectures, infused with as much energy and passion as any fairy tale or adventure story. The Halloween lectures were embedded among the memories of mountains of candy and garish costumes and dark nights. The fascination and delight of curves and derivatives of curves, planar and spatial geometry, equations and integrals, all of it presented amid the flashing light of a dipping blade. They couldn't have Halloween without the marvelous inflection points on a pumpkin, any more than they could have Christmas without the beautiful fractals in each snowflake or have the Fourth of July without the heroic parabolas of the fireworks that celebrated freedom and of the bullets that won it in the first place.
Though they do not yet realize it, the children are already shaped by this ritual, angled toward a life that will see math everywhere. Even the youngest - whose more scanty experience has been reinforced by the anticipatory stories told by her siblings over the past month - even she has already been steeped in it. They will never be able to look at a pumpkin, feel orange flesh or smell gobbety orange muck without visualizing curvilinear coordinates, rotated through space under an integral term.
"Where the curve curves the other way. That's a very good answer," the man says. "And what does that mean, exactly? I ask because I'm not sure your sister understands what that means." The tip of the knife, gleaming with pumpkin juice, points at the youngest before returning to the rind, this time to stab deeply. "Could one of you explain it to her, please?"
Three voices in chorus: "DAAAAD!" A fourth voice, not sure at first if she should join in on this protest, decides to play it safe: " -AAAD!" The oldest continues, "We'll tell her later, let's just carve the pumpkin first, OK?"
The blade pauses, then the man's hand is withdrawn, gently taking his older son's hand away as well. The knife is deep in the pumpkin, less than three inches of steel still visible. It supports itself at an angle, gleaming wetly. With his finger and thumb, he replicates the angle of the knife in the pumpkin's flesh.
"See that angle? It's almost exactly the same as the angle of repose for wet sand, about twice the angle of repose for dry sand. Remember how much fun we used to have, playing in the sandbox when you guys were little?"
"DAD! Don't change the subject!" It's the second oldest this time, the peacekeeper. Well familiar with the ever-present temptation of long tangents, he says, "I'll explain about inflection points, you two keep carving the Jack O' Lantern. Come on, Dad, please?"
The man smiles. "Fair enough. Just be sure to go slow and make sure she understands it, or we might have to stop so I can explain it myself." He nods to the oldest, then reaches out to help him guide the knife handle again. The explanation comes tumbling out, eleven-year-old words pitched to seven-year-old ears. The crown of the pumpkin lifts away and the kitchen fills with the smell of seeds and pulp and mathematics.
By the time the concept is conveyed, examples offered and full comprehension achieved, the inner walls of the pumpkin are scraped clean. The seeds are in the pot of boiling water, heavily salted. When the face of the Jack O' Lantern is fully carved, it will be time to transfer the boiled seeds to the roasting pan.
The big spoon is set aside, the little paring knife taken up. He pauses.
"Hey, have I ever told you guys about vector space projections?"
The children squint and scrunch their faces. The silence hangs, as the small knife awaits their answer. The older two look at each other, trying to remember anything he might have said about vector space projections. The youngest shakes her head, stops, then, looking at the others, sees that she did the right thing after all and shakes her head more vigorously.
All four of them start to smile. It's been a while since he'd deviated from the old favorites and introduced a new concept. The response comes from Child Number 3, who, as she does more and more of late, beats the oldest to the punch. She brushes her bangs out of her eyes and says, "Vector spatial... what?"
The man looks at her for a moment, then returns his eyes to his work. The paring knife, as sharp as all his other knives, slides into what will be the left eye. "Vector space projections. Since you can all ride a bike now - " the youngest grins and glows with pride "- and since driver's licenses are coming along in a few years, starting with him -" a nod toward the oldest, who also grins "- I thought you guys might like to talk about how cars and bikes move down the road together without crashing into each other. Because, y'know, ..."
"... it's all math!" This time, all four voices chorus together perfectly, the unofficial family motto resounding off the kitchen walls.
And the man smiles.
