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The October air in Belle Meade carries the crisp, distinct scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke, a perfect Tennessee autumn afternoon. Inside the sprawling, warm-toned house, the television hums with the bright, familiar theme music of Bluey.
Dave Haywood settles two-year-old Lillie onto the plush rug with a small bowl of apple slices, watching her immediate, wide-eyed fixation on the screen. Nearby, six-year-old Cash is a blur of kinetic energy, abandoning his pile of Legos to bounce on the cushions, his focus darting from the TV to a toy truck, then to his own shoelaces. Dave tracks the chaotic rhythm with a fond, knowing smile, a quiet mental note sharpening about a conversation he and Charles need to have with their pediatrician regarding Cash’s relentless, brilliant, but utterly scattered attention span.
"Alright, big guy, your turn," Dave murmurs, turning his attention to four-year-old Ward, who is practically vibrating with anticipation by the kitchen island.
Ward is at the magic age where the world is opening up into real, tangible projects, and today is the day he learns the sacred autumn ritual of properly carving a jack-o'-lantern. Dave stoops down, scooping Ward up onto his hip with an practiced heft that makes the toddler giggle. Carrying him toward the back porch, Dave pushes open the heavy screen door. The porch is bathed in amber afternoon sunlight, but Dave positions Ward where they maintain a direct, unobstructed line of sight through the mesh wire. The other two kids remain perfectly visible inside, safe and entertained, just a glance away.
Waiting for them at the sturdy wooden patio table is Charles Kelley, surrounded by an array of gourds and tools, looking every bit the seasoned autumn craftsman. Charles looks up, his face softening into a warm grin as his eyes lock onto Dave and Ward. He pats the bench beside him, ready to initiate the next generation into the time-honored Kelley method of top-tier pumpkin crafting.
"Step one, buddy, is all about the prep," Charles says, his deep voice carrying an easy, instructive weight. He hands Ward a thick stack of the Tennessean Sunday edition. "We gotta cover the whole workspace. Spread 'em out nice and flat."
Ward takes the task with extreme seriousness, smoothing the newsprint over the wood with his small palms. Once the perimeter is secure, Charles pulls a hefty, bright orange pumpkin into the center of the table. He reaches for a sharp, serrated kitchen knife, holding it up so Ward can see the angle.
"Now watch close," Charles instructs, positioning the blade at the crown. "When you cut the circular lid, you never go straight down. You gotta cut at a slight, inward-facing angle. Like a cone." He demonstrates, slicing through the thick rind with practiced ease, pivoting the blade skillfully. "If you cut it straight, the lid dries out and plops right inside the pumpkin. But a nice angle keeps it resting perfectly on top."
With a satisfying pop, Charles lifts the stem, revealing the stringy, orange cavern inside.
"Now for step two," Charles says, flexing his hands playfully. "The clean-up. We gotta scoop out all the pulp and the seeds." He slides a large, heavy-duty metal spoon and a bright green plastic scraper tool across the newspaper toward Ward. "Go ahead, get in there."
Ward leans over the edge, peering into the damp, shadowy interior of the pumpkin. He grips the scraper with both hands, plunging it into the center and pulling out a massive, dripping glob of wet, fibrous orange pulp tangled with dozens of slick white seeds. The texture is cold and stringy against his fingers.
"Yucky!" Ward squeals, his face contorting into a mask of pure, dramatic toddler disgust.
He instantly lifts his messy hands, drawing his arm back, fully intending to launch the slimy handful over the porch railing and into the yard.
"Whoa, hold the phone, monster!" Charles laughs, quickly but gently catching Ward’s wrist mid-swing to redirect his hand back down toward the newspaper.
Dave steps in closer, leaning against the table and smoothing a hand over Ward's hair to calm the chaotic energy. "Hey, look at me, buddy. We don't throw away the skin or the innards. Out here, every single part of the pumpkin is edible and compostable. We don't waste it." Dave points to the messy pile on the paper, smiling warmly. "Believe it or not, what you just called 'yucky' can actually be separated, cleaned, and used to make a really delicious pie."
Ward freezes, his hand hovering over the newspaper, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as he looks from Dave to the gooey orange mass. "Pie?" The toddler asks in absolute, hushed awe, as if Dave had just suggested they could turn the pumpkin into actual gold.
"Yeah, pie," Charles chimes in, nudging Dave's hip with his own in a quiet, affectionate gesture. "And your papa makes the best pumpkin pie in Nashville, so let's save every bit of it."
With the interior thoroughly scraped bare and smooth, Charles uses a damp rag to wipe Ward’s hands, transitioning them smoothly into the next phase.
"Step three is the artistry," Charles announces, pulling a couple of black Sharpies and a box of washable markers from his pocket. "Design time. You can sketch out your design with a pencil or a marker first, or some people tape a pre-made stencil to the pumpkin's face if they want it to look perfect. But we're going freehand today."
While Ward grabs a black marker and immediately leans in, tongue poking out in intense concentration as he begins drawing on the smooth orange skin, Charles leans back against the bench. He catches Dave’s eye, a slow, playful smirk spreading across his face.
"You know, you look pretty cute teaching the kid about sustainability," Charles murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, deliberately teasing.
He reaches out, his thumb lightly brushing against Dave's hip, tracing the hem of his shirt. Dave rolls his eyes, though a prominent flush creeps up his neck. He doesn't pull away, instead leaning into Charles’ space, resting an elbow on his shoulder.
"Oh, is that what does it for you? Sustainable farming talk? Good to know after ten years, Kelley."
"Hey, I'm a man of simple pleasures," Charles retorts softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he glances between his husband and their son.
Ward is entirely oblivious to the open flirting happening above his head. He is having the absolute time of his life, completely lost in his own creative world. The marker squeaks loudly against the pumpkin as he draws a massive, lopsided circle for one eye, a tiny triangle for the other, and a mouth that resembles a jagged, zigzagging mountain range stretching all the way around the side. It is a wildly chaotic, very odd face, completely devoid of symmetry, and it is absolutely perfect.
"That is a masterpiece," Dave declares honestly, pressing a kiss to the top of Ward's head. "Step four: the cut. Charles, she's all yours."
Charles nods, taking over with a small, fine-toothed pumpkin saw designed specifically for safety and precision. Ward watches, captivated, as his dad begins sawing along the black marker lines.
"Here’s the secret trick for carving, Ward," Charles says, the saw making a rhythmic zip-zip-zip sound through the thick flesh. "When you finish cutting out a shape, you never pull the pieces outward. If you pull them, you risk tearing the front skin or breaking the details. You always want to push the pieces inward, into the center of the pumpkin, and then you just reach through the top lid and grab 'em out."
To demonstrate, Charles finishes sawing the tiny triangle eye. He gives it a firm tap with his thumb, and the piece pops cleanly inward, dropping to the floor of the pumpkin with a soft thud. Ward gasps, delighted by the magic trick. One by one, Charles follows the zigzag lines of the mouth, pushing the jagged teeth inward until the strange, wonderful face is fully hollowed out. The sun is dipping below the tree line now, casting long, purple shadows across the Belle Meade porch. The temperature drops just enough to make the warmth of the house through the screen door feel inviting. Inside, Cash and Lillie are still occupied, but outside, the main event has arrived.
"Final step," Dave whispers dramatically, holding up a small, round object. "Step five: Light. We gotta illuminate your creation. Some people use a traditional votive candle with a real flame, but since we’ve got little hands around, we’re going with this battery-operated LED light."
Dave lets Ward take the little plastic disc. Ward reaches up on his tiptoes, carefully dropping the LED light through the top opening of the pumpkin, settling it right in the center. Charles takes the angled lid they cut first and slots it perfectly back into place.
Instantly, the pumpkin comes to life. A bright, warm amber glow bursts through the jagged openings, casting a flickering, dancing shadow across the newspaper-covered table. Ward claps his hands together excitedly, letting out a pure, unbridled squeal of joy, jumping up and down on the porch panels. His gloriously goofy, asymmetrical pumpkin face is staring right back at him, glowing proudly in the fading Tennessee twilight, a beacon of a perfect afternoon spent together.