by Susan Warren
Dick and Ron firmly believed their painstaking seed-starting methods increased their rate of germination success. But other methods worked well too. Many growers folded their seeds inside a damp paper towel, placed the towel in a clear plastic baggie, then stowed it in a warm, dark place to germinate. Usually within 3 6 hours, a crack would appear along the edge of a seed near its point. As it opened wider, like a clamshell, the white tip of a root would begin to poke out. As soon as the seed popped open, the growers would remove it and put it in a dirt-filled pot to finish sprouting.
The advantage of the paper towel method is that growers can see exactly when the seed begins to sprout—a process otherwise hidden beneath the dirt. For growers who hover over their planted seed like expectant parents, it is gratifying to know at the earliest possible moment that a prized seed has successfully germinated. Precious days can be lost waiting for a dud to emerge from the dirt. But Dick and Ron were appalled by this practice. They thought it was too easy to go wrong by making the paper towel too wet or too dry. Many times, seeds would rot before they could sprout. Nature designed seeds to grow in the dirt, and that was, they believed, the most reliable method for producing healthy seedlings.
The weather throughout April had stayed warm and dry, making for a beautiful spring, though Ron was getting a little worried about his well drying up. Still, the weather promised a great start to the new season, and he was optimistic. "I think the weather is going to be good this spring," he said. "I really don't care about not getting rain. If I have to choose between rain or no rain, I'd rather have no rain. That way I can control how much water goes on the plants."
The flood of requests for the 1068 had finally subsided. Ron had handed out all the seeds he was going to hand out. He'd even sent one to a pumpkin grower in Alaska. J. D. Megchelsen had grown a 942-pound pumpkin last year and this year he was determined to be the first person to grow a 1,000-pound pumpkin in Alaska. The ground in his town of Nikiski was still heavy with snow when Megchelsen sowed his 1068 in a heated peat pot on March 25. He needed to get an early start to make the most of Alaska's short, but intense, growing season. On March 30, he posted an entry on his Internet diary: "The tiger is out of its cage." The 1068 had sprouted.
The last 1068 seed dispatched by Ron that spring was to Ed Hemphill, the Canadian grower he'd refused earlier in the year. Though a longtime New Hampshire grower had called and put in a good word for Hemphill, Ron still wasn't convinced. But one day as he was about to walk out of the house, his eye fell on Hemphill's self-addressed bubble pack. On an impulse, Ron tossed in a 1068 and stuck it in the mail. "What the heck," he thought. It was just one more seed.
Ron and Dick couldn't understand why so many people were having trouble with the 1068. They felt bad for anyone who was disappointed. "So maybe the 1068 is a little bit of a tough germinator," Ron acknowledged. But they had planted 13 of the seeds themselves, and 12 had come up. "I'm not Zeus," he said. "It's just basic germination skills and 95 degrees." The Wallaces suspected some of the growers weren't keeping the seeds hot enough. A temperature of 8 5 degrees was often recommended for seed germination, but Ron and his dad had always had better success with higher temperatures. As they sorted through their seedlings in the wagon cart, they debated what the problem might be.
"My God, these guys don't know how to do nothing, and they beat our ass every year," Dick said.
"Well, there were a lot of good growers that didn't get them to pop," said Ron. "Even some guys in our own club. Maybe it's the kelp we use. Maybe it's—"
"Guess what. Nobody has to worry about planting it if they don't want to," Dick said.
"I look at it totally the other way," Ron countered. "Those are more 1068s that didn't go into the ground that could have helped its average. That's why I'm starting so many more seeds to give to everybody else."
The 1068 germination failures were a worry. This was supposed to be the seed's breakout year. If word got out that it was a dud, it would be a huge setback in their campaign to establish it as the best ever. Ron and Dick were convinced that the 1068 was the surest ticket there was to a world record. Last year had established the seed's potential to grow 1,300-plus-pound behemoths. But every year more world-class pumpkins were being grown and producing more seeds with world-class genetics, increasing the odds that some new hot seed could overtake it. So the game this year was to get as many top growers to put the 1068 in the ground as possible. The more 1068s grown by the best growers in the world, the better its chances of racking up even more 1,300- and 1,400pounders to secure its place in the history books.
But no one could grow a pumpkin if they couldn't even get the seed to sprout. Even Dave Stelts, a former world champion, hadn't been able to get his 1068 to pop. No matter why it was happening, Ron felt a personal responsibility for the unsprouted seeds. He'd even decided to box up a 1068 seedling and mail it to Dave in western Pennsylvania. Dave was one of the Wallaces' archrivals, and also one of their best friends. Ron wanted to make sure Dave had a 1068 to grow this year. Sending the plant by overnight freight was a little risky, but if it made it intact, it could save Dave a week of growing time. If it didn't make it, Ron could always send him another seed.
Before Ron and Dick headed out to the garden for planting, Ron ran to make a quick check on his newest batch of seedlings. He left his father at the wagon and trotted through the garage, past his shrouded GTO, and up the back stairs into the house. In an office cubbyhole off his bedroom, Ron had rigged up a sunning system for his just-sprouted seeds. He kept a computer and a small desk against one wood-paneled wall of the office nook. A fold-up table was set against another wall. Underneath was the cat's litter-box. On top was a tent of glittering aluminum foil.
Ron pulled a rolling office chair away from his computer and sat down in front of the table. He carefully peeled away a couple of wide strips of the crinkled aluminum foil, revealing a three-foot-long fluorescent light stretching the length of the table, suspended about eight inches above the tabletop. Five peat pots with just-sprouted seedlings were lined up beneath the light.
Ron was proud of his incubation chamber. Left outside, the seedlings might get set back by a cloudy day. But under the grow lights, which mimic the sun's rays, they got a steady dose of energizing warmth that gave them a solid head start. The aluminum foil trapped the heat and reflected the light back onto the seedlings. It was a trick he had learned, he said, from a buddy who had learned it from someone who had read about it in High Times, the magazine for marijuana growers. "You ever notice that when they bust marijuana people, the whole place is covered in tinfoil?" Ron said.
Ron tapped the dirt on top of each seedling, checking for moisture. "Here's one my father watered way too heavy last night," he said. Ron was always fussing at his dad for overwatering the seedlings. That's what had gotten them into trouble—doing too much instead of letting well enough alone. He picked up another peat pot with a 1068 seedling just poking above the dirt. Its two cot leaves were wrinkled and yellow, still clasped together like hands in prayer. "I don't know if that one's going to make it," Ron frowned. The seedling had emerged from the dirt with its cot leaves still trapped inside the seed shell. The leaves usually open and throw off the shell, but sometimes, they need a little help. Dick had tried to take the seed shell off the cots the night before, but ended up pulling the entire seedling out of the dirt. He called Ron at work to confess.
"I said, 'How did that happen?' And he said, 'I dunno. It just came out. It didn't have any roots,' " Ron recalled. Dick had stuck it back in the dirt and they'd left it alone to give the roots a chance to grow. It might still be fine.
Satisfied that the seedlings were okay, Ron dashed back down to the cart to finish sorting out their plants. His father had fetched a wheelbarrow to load the plants they would choose to put in the ground that day. Ron looked over the seedlings one last time. "I'm going to take these three," he said, pointing to a group of 1068s he'd pushed to the side. "This one might be the one I mail o
ut to Stelts." He pointed to a sturdy 1068 with slightly smaller leaves. Of course, Ron was keeping the best seedlings for himself. But he felt a little guilty about being selfish.
"Hey, Ronnie. It is what it is," said Dick.
"The ones in the germinating box we'll keep for Steve Sperry and Peter Rondeau," Ron calculated. He pointed to another one of the punier plants. They needed that one to give away to somebody, but it wasn't much of a prize. One of the leaves looked slightly deformed. "It's a little yellow, but that doesn't mean anything these first two weeks," Ron said.
"Hey, you know the seedling we gave to Steve Connolly last year," Dick reminded him. "We weren't going to give it to anybody because it was so awful-looking. It was maybe a couple weeks old. A leftover. And he grew his 1,333 on that plant."
The morning sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Ron squinted out across the yard to the garden. It was a neat, dark rectangle of earth carved out of new lime-green grass, surrounded on three sides by tall pine trees. Ron and his dad had already set up miniature greenhouses over the places where they would put each plant. The hutches, covered in translucent plastic, were called "cold-frames" by some growers because they protected the plants in the cool weather of spring.
Ron and Dick had seven premium coldframes that Joe Jutras had helped them build with sturdy two-by-two and two-by-four lumber. They were completely enclosed, about the size of a pup tent, though half of one side was hinged so that it could be opened for access to the plants or to ventilate the greenhouse on warmer days. These greenhouses were ideal for the pumpkin plants, but a lot of trouble to build. Since they only had 7, and needed 10, Ron had gone to a local hardware store to pick up 3 more. They were much smaller, made of PVC pipe and green plastic, but they were inexpensive and ready to go. Ron and Dick had set all the greenhouses out a week ago. As the sun shone through the plastic, it heated the air inside the greenhouse like a car in summer, warming the soil where the seedling would take root. Cold soil would slow the plants growth. Some growers went so far as to bury heating cables in their garden to warm up the dirt before planting time.
Dick rolled a wheelbarrow with their seedlings and planting supplies out to the edge of the garden. The dirt in the newly tilled garden was a rich, dark brown, crumbly and soft. Walking in it would pack it down with every footstep. But it needed to stay loose—with plenty of air pockets to give the plant roots oxygen and room to spread—the Wallaces had laid long planks through the garden. Walking on the boards distributed their weight so that the soil was less compacted, and limited damage to a single path.
Ron walked down a plank to the first greenhouse, one of the smaller ones. He carried an industrial-sized aluminum cookie sheet, which he tossed on the ground. He flipped his beige baseball cap around on his head, then kneeled down on top of the metal sheet. He zipped open the tentlike coldframe, rolled up the flap, and bent his head inside. The new greenhouses were only about two feet tall, and Ron had to hunch over to lean in.
"Okay, Dad. I need you to get me some mycorrhizae," Ron said. As Dick went to fetch the bucket of fungi, Ron began digging a hole for the seedling inside the greenhouse. The dirt was so soft, he scooped out a bucket-sized hole with his hand. As he dug, he pulled out large clumps of semirotted grass and shook his head. The clumps were left over from last fall, when they had first plowed the new patch, turning under leaves and grass that had been growing in the woodland. He had hoped they would be chopped up enough to rot over the winter. But no such luck. "That's not good," he said, holding up a chunk of semidecomposed grass to show his dad. "It ties up nitrogen." But so far, that was the only major problem he'd detected. Not too bad, really.
"Dad," Ron said as he finished digging the hole. "What do you want to do here, a 1354 Checkon or a 1370 Rose?"
"I think the 1354," Dick said. He picked up a flat wooden paint-stirring stick and a black marker and wrote "1354" on the stick, then he added a big, bold checkmark underneath—shorthand for "Checkon. They'd use the sticks to label the plants once they were in the ground. The 1354 Checkon was the same seed that had grown Larry Checkon's 2005 world record. It had very different genetics from the 1068 Wallace. They wanted to grow it to see what kind of pumpkin it would produce for them, and also they wanted to mix it into their 1068 line as way of diversifying their seed stock.
"Okay, Dad, you know what you can do?" Ron said. "Drop two tablespoons of kelp into the sprinkler can."
Dick reached down and peeled the lid off the plastic tub of liquid seaweed. A powerful stink, like a badly neglected outhouse, wafted up. "Aaaaaaahh. That's a nice aroma," Dick joked. The kelp looked as bad as it smelled—a dark brown sludge dripping down the side of the container. Dick stirred some mycorrhizae fungi into the mixture, which began to bubble and foam like some foul witches' brew. He mixed a few tablespoons into the full watering can and then carried it across the plank to Ron, who sprinkled the newly planted seedling.
Efficient and businesslike, Ron moved on to the next greenhouse. "The 1370," he called to his dad. The 1370 Rose was renowned for producing bright-orange pumpkins. "If we can have orange and heavy, we're going to have it," Ron said. "A lot of people think the 1068 needs color, and it does. The number-one cross made by anyone who has it this year is going to be the 1370 and the 1068 Wallace."
Dick scrawled "1370" on another paint stick and drew a flower, a rose, underneath it. He was amusing himself now. Ron dug a hole, carefully peeled away the peat pot from the velvety leaves of the seedling, and cupping it in both hands, gently settled it into its new home. He scraped the dirt back to fill in the hole, then patted it softly in place around the stem of the plant. "Dad! Water!" he called. He sprinkled the plant, then moved on to the next greenhouse. The old, handmade coldframes were big enough for Ron to crawl inside. He tossed in his cookie sheet and stepped in on top of it. This spot was for a 1068. Dick pulled out another painter stick and wrote "1068." Underneath it, he drew two curving lines cupped around a vertical slash—a naked butt, the Dick Wallace trademark. He grinned devilishly.
Ron dug, planted, and watered, moving down the line of greenhouses until all the plants were in the ground. Since it was a sunny day, he propped the greenhouse doors open a bit to make sure the newly planted seedlings didn't overheat. They were still very young and tender, and it wouldn't take much to fry them. But he also wanted to create a warm, humid microclimate inside the greenhouses to jump-start the plants. It was a delicate but all-important balance. They had to stay on schedule. Ron ran the numbers as he worked—if the plants were in the ground by the end of the first week in May, then some would be ready to pollinate by the end of June. If he could get all the pumpkins pollinated by the second week of July, he should be close to 400 pounds come August 1.
But no, that was the old days. If he pollinated as late as July 14 or 15, he'd lose 10 days of his best growing weather. Now, if he was shooting for 1,500, he would probably need to be at 500 pounds by the end of July. That meant pollinating by the end of June or the first few days of July. To reach 1,500 pounds, Ron figured his pumpkin would need to put on another 800 pounds during the peak growth phase in August. Then, if he was lucky, he could add another 200 pounds in September.
That was the trickiest part. In September, when the pumpkins were maturing and the weather started to cool as the days got shorter, the plants' growth slowed down dramatically and often stopped completely. But that's where Rhode Island had an advantage over some other states up north. It was nearly surrounded by water. The Atlantic Ocean to the south and Narragansett Bay to the east helped stabilize its weather, moderating some of the dramatic temperature swings other places could see in the early fall. It was often several degrees warmer than northern Massachusetts or New Hampshire in September. "I always thought that if we could just figure out what to do, we could beat other clubs," Ron said. "Because our weather is a hell of a lot better."
7
A Change in the Weather
WITH THE DAY'S PLANTING finished, Dick had put on fresh clothes—
a bright blue-and-white Hawaiian shirt with palm trees, a pair of long khaki shorts, white socks, and suede ankle boots. His hair was neatly brushed straight back from his receding hairline. His wife, Cathy, wore jeans and a light-blue denim jacket over a black blouse. A pink glass heart dangled from a blue and aqua beaded necklace. They were ready for their Saturday-night date.
Dick and Cathy made it a point to go out to dinner at least once a week, just the two of them. Especially during pumpkin-growing season, when Dick spent so much time in the garden and Cathy felt neglected. The year had been a rough one for Cathy so far. She'd just gotten out of the hospital the week before, after suffering another lung infection—the third that year. She'd been coughing and feeling weak and having trouble breathing. It had been bothering Ron especially. "It's the worst I've ever seen her," he said. Ron was beginning to worry more about his dad too. His lungs had been damaged by a lifetime of smoking, and heart problems had cropped up recently.
While Cathy waited in the car, Dick ran up for another quick look at the three seedlings still in their germination box. He lifted the Plexiglass lid and doused each emerging seedling with a drink of water. "Ron says I water too much," he confessed. "But they were looking a little dry."
Before dinner, Dick wanted to stop by and see how Joe Jutras was doing with his seedlings. Dick and Joe were kindred spirits. They both never hesitated to share their time or resources with other growers, and they had bonded over the years as they collaborated on making trophies for the club's weigh-off prizes. The Jutras house sat on a rise at the bottom of a valley, with several acres of wooded land sloping down in the back. The house was encircled by a green lawn bordered by deep flower beds and dotted with fruit trees and neatly pruned shrubs. On one side of the house, Joe's wife, Sue, kept a vegetable garden. Farther back, Joe grew two rows of grape vines. In the middle of the backyard, well away from the shade of the trees, was Joe's pumpkin patch.