#mywriting #pecans #trees
A Walking Stick from a Pecan Tree
Dear Jeffrey,
You wrote ~
“I fashioned a walking stick out of a branch on our pecan tree…”
You see. You are an 'Our'.
I am a 'My'.
You are a 'We'.
I am an 'I'.
You have all that I am without.
I have not seen a pecan tree since I lived in the South.
Nor have I had a slice of real pecan pie since then.
A substitute would be too cruel.
So, I pass them by.
But I often have pecans in my home.
I buy them in stores, or from far away places.
They are already nicely shelled.
I am denied the pleasure of cracking the shell open
with a nut cracker, or a light touch with a hammer.
I am denied crushing two together in the palms of my hands.
The goal is to get the pecan halves out in one whole piece.
I remember.
I am without relatives, and someone telling me
that my ancestors made beautiful jewelry out of pecan shell
while they were in a Civil War prison.
Others made boxes, furniture and toys from pecan tree wood.
I am without warm Southern breezes, and the scent of magnolias
and flowers in the air, and how it looks and feels when
it is just about to rain and the sun is still shining.
That all comes with pecans.
I am without the mindless chit chat in Southern accents
while we sit on a porch and snapped bushels of green beans,
shelled peas and shucked the husks off of corn on the cob.
I was ignorant of the cruelty of Southern slavery.
I am without my youth and innocent, happier days when I did not know-
I was so ignorant, and those days were precious and would never come again.
I am without all of these pecan tree things.
But I do have corporate shelled pecans as small mementos.
Salt Lake City, Utah, 2017
