By
Brian
Thornton
lthough
I
grew
up
a
stones
throw
and
a
couple
of
cornfields
away
from
Johnson’s
Giant
Pumpkin
Farm,
nestled
in
a
quiet
community
on
the
outskirts
of
Saginaw,
MI,
I
don’t
recall
every
visiang
there
are
a
child.
I’m
sure
that,
if
I
did,
I
would
have
remembered
the
field
of
orange
p u m p k i n s ;
t h e
r u s a c
f a r m i n g
implements
and
equipment;
the
float-‐
style
figurines
of
Smurfs
and
Clifford
the
Dog,
and
the
anaque
red
fire
truck
that
all
seem
to
belong
sca