While I was fussy about apples, it takes Esben thirty minutes to find a pumpkin that suits his carving needs. They all look the same to me, but I enjoy walking alongside him as he stops and starts, occasionally bending down to roll a pumpkin around.
At one point, he picks up what looks to me like a perfectly nice one and says sadly, “I’m so sorry. You are beautiful and perfectly round, but you do not have a stem, and, therefore, you are unfit for becoming a jack-o’-lantern. There are standards that have to be met. You can be a pie. Or bread.”
“Or pumpkin bars? Those are really good. Simon makes them. Chocolate ganache, a layer of pumpkin cream, crushed cookies...”
“I like everything I’ve heard about this Simon fellow. He’s a good dad, huh?”
“He is.”
“But you don’t call him Dad?”
“Oh.” We walk down the path while Esben keeps looking. “I don’t. I guess because he adopted me when I was so old.”
“Does he mind?”
“He’s never said if he does.” I kick a stone. I haven’t thought about this before.
Esben absolutely refuses to let me pay for the pumpkins and apples, even though he already paid for lunch, so I wander to look at display shelves set up with jams, a few baked goods, fudge, and locally made syrups. When I round back to the register, Esben is in a full-blown conversation with the man in line behind him. They’re having a back-and-forth exchange about Maine attractions, and Esben is recommending our lunch spot.
“Oh, yeah, man! You have to go. We just ate there, and you won’t find better seafood anywhere.”
“That right? We’ll drive on over then, if I can get my wife to leave the orchard. It’s like she’s never seen a tree before.” He winks. “We’ve been on the road all day. Drove from New York City.”
“Really?” Esben smiles and hands money to the cashier.
“Yes. But this was worth those hours in the car.” The man looks around, then back at Esben, and leans in. “Want to know something?” he says a bit nervously. “After years working in the boring business world, we’re going to do something fun and quirky. Finally. I’ve been a milk-shake addict all my life,” he confesses with a laugh, “so we’re starting a business around it. But not just regular milk shakes. Ones with skewers that stick out of the shake, loaded with extras. Brownie bites, fresh-baked cookies, candy bars. And in the colder months, we’ll also do what we call ‘hot milk shakes.’ Coffee, tea, and cider drinks that’ll come with doughnuts, pumpkin bread, and all that.” He can barely contain his excitement.
Esben moves aside while the man pays for his pumpkin. “What a completely cool idea.” He pauses, and suddenly I smile, because I know what he’s about to do. He puts out an open hand. “My name is Esben Baylor. Any chance I could take a picture of you and your wife?”
Ten minutes later, Esben has posted a photo of this man and his wife, standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch, with a caption that tells their story and the hashtag#goforthedream.
After the car is loaded with apples and pumpkins and the four cornstalks that he’s somehow squished into the backseat, we start the drive. I am glued to my phone, watching in awe as the comments pour in over this picture. I tap between his public Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter pages and his home page. It’s impossible to keep up.
I drop the phone in my lap and stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
“Who are you?I mean... you have hundreds of comments in a matter of seconds about milk-shake man and his wife.”
“What are people saying?”
I check again. The numbers are already way up. “Really nice things.” I scroll and hardly know what to read aloud, because the sheer volume of comments is overwhelming. I read, “‘I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Good for them. Hope they rock it out.’ Lots like that. Someone wants to know the name of the store and when they’ll be opening. Another person says...” I squint and then giggle. “She says that the milk-shake dude is crazy hot, and she’s single, in case his wife ends up hating milk-shake life and runs off to Barbados with the ice-cream delivery boy.”
“Well, that would be a sad ending to an otherwise inspiring story.”
“How did you start doing all this? I mean, again,who are you?”
He laughs and pops on a pair of sunglasses. “This? This wasn’t a big deal. But it’s an interesting world, with interesting people. You just have to keep your eyes open.” Suddenly, he pulls the car into the far right lane and takes an exit. “Speaking of ice cream, I totally forgot. There’s a stand here that’s insane.”
“How do you know about all these places?”
“I like driving around, checking out little towns. Maine’s got some quirky places. Campus can get a little claustrophobic.”
I think about how much I love sequestering myself in my room. I may have to give that up.
Esben takes us to another window-service-only place, and we get in line. “Good. I was worried they’d already closed for the season.” His arm goes over my shoulder again. “It’s soft-serve ice cream, and they only have seven flavors or something, but it’s so good. Trust me.”
“I do trust you. And not just about the ice cream.”