When Pumpkins Fly
For twenty-six years now, men and women have gathered on open farmland in Sussex County, Delaware, on the first Saturday after Halloween to see how far they can hurl an eight-to-ten pound pumpkin. Participants travel from all over the country with their air cannons, catapults, centrifugals, and trebuchets in tow. They come for the glory, hoping they’ll be the one to fling a pumpkin the furthest and thus be anointed “lord of the gourd.”
I’m talking, of course, about The World Championship Punkin Chunkin contest held just outside of Bridgeville, about an hour west of Rehoboth. It’s the oldest and largest competition of its type. Organizers say over 100,000 people attended this year’s three-day event.
I was one of them. In a moment of weakness, I agreed to accompany my friends Bill and Susan Wade to “The Chunk,” as it is often referred to by aficionados of the event. They’re adventuresome souls who recently spent seven months eating and drinking their way around the Chesapeake Bay in order to write their new book Crab Decks and Tiki Bars of the Chesapeake Bay. Their two boys had become intrigued with the competition after seeing television ads for it on the Science Channel. Besides, I needed something to write about for this last column of the year, and what better than this spectacle of high tech meets redneck on the flat Delaware plains.
Let me tell you, it was a sight. I’ve never seen so many rebel flags or such a collection of camouflage couture in one place north of Georgia. The event certainly seemed to attract a fair share of biker types and quite a few hipsters whom I’m betting were science geeks back in the day. And, I can definitely say a lot of the attendees were there for the “lord of the lard” competition, given the way these super sized spectators were scarfing down funnel cakes and French fries.
There were rides for the kids and tents with vendors peddling crafts. ING had a booth. Maybe because their logo is orange? Nobody lined up to learn about checking accounts. They did, however, queue up for the big chili cook off. Mostly though, people were milling around and waiting around for the actual chunking to begin. It’s a very slow competition and the organizers keep you quite a distance away from the action. That explains the whole creepy carnival sideshow that’s grown up around the competition.
Punkin Chunkin today is a far cry from the last time I watched the pumpkins fly fifteen or so years ago. Back then, it was a much smaller event, held in a field alongside of Route One. Pumpkins were fired north towards a little brick church with a bulls eye sign on its roof: Aim Here for Jesus, it said. There was a lot of drinking going on and much merriment when the occasional pumpkin would fly out into the highway. Drivers be damned. I watched it with a bottle of Southern Comfort from atop an RV. It was cult.
This, of course, was well before the Discovery Channel got involved as a sponsor, and a year or so before the winning chunkers were invited onto the Late Show with David Letterman to shoot pumpkins up New York City streets. Who’d have thought a crazy bet made among four friends one afternoon in Lewes, Delaware, over who could throw a pumpkin the furthest would have morphed into such a cultural phenomenon? Or, that with the aid of an air compressor only you could fire a pumpkin three quarters of a mile? The winning distance back in 1986 was 128 feet.
In case you’re wondering, there was nothing gay about this year’s Punkin Chunkin, unless you count me in a pumpkin hat or if you think a group of beefy guys cheering for a cannon named “Big Ten Inch” might be a tad homoerotic. There’s nothing campy either, and that’s a shame because the possibilities are endless.
One could, for example, envision men in orange trunks wrestling in a pit of punkin innards. Rather than a traditional beauty contest, why not choose Miss Punkin Chunkin based on how fast she can carve up a classic jack-o-lantern and then how far she can toss it? Forget the funnel cakes and fries; bring on the pumpkin fritters and pumpkin dumplings. If I were in charge, I’d make sure there was plenty of pumpkin ale, and I’d even import some of that pumpkin wine from Wisconsin. I hear its semi-sweet and a bit one dimensional, but, seriously, how bad can it be when you’re already standing in a corn field beside the Sons of Confederate Veterans?
In closing, I want to offer some advice to any of you thrill seekers thinking about experiencing the Chunk in all its glory: Go late; leave early. And, most importantly, take a flask and a pair of binoculars. You’ll thank me for it.
To see Rich’s Punkin Chunkin photos, check out his blog.