Often the very best traditions are the ones that manifest organically; that simply spring forth year after year, nearly forgotten, like daffodil bulbs.

I’d wager my kids actually prefer customs that require less micro-management, lest the fabricated memory-making render Mother an anxious, worn-out cruise director and squelch their fun.

For decades my family’s visited Vince Woods’ humble farm, enjoying his salt-of-the-earth no-nonsense pumpkin patch each autumn. As a crow flies it’s just down the road from where we live next door to my sister, just a couple miles from my great-grandparents’ former homestead where the street still bears their name, and around the corner from the apple orchard where my dad lost his finger as a boy. This fertile farmland is ripe with personal history and still making memories today.

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