The Black Walnut Battle

It's astonishing to me now how places that are the backdrop to some of the most powerful moments in your childhood really can end up becoming more recognizable as a faded backdrop to an old home film, and for those of us not so lucky, just a haze in the left file of our long-term memory. One of these places for me is what I still refer to as, "Mamaw & Papaw's House".

Sometimes I think I'm crazy for referring to a place that hasn't been any sort of gathering space for decades - but it's presence is still so vivid, so real to me. A two story home placed on the right side of a dead-end road, on land surrounded by family, wooded enough to place my first tree stand for deer season, and covered enough for me and my Dad to hide in the bush at the base of the clearing when I wasn't brave enough to climb in it. The porch on the front of the house overlooked the pasture across the road that one could occasionally get close enough to pet the German Black Pied cattle on the other side. On the side of the house was the gathering porch, the one connected to the kitchen, overlooking the above ground pool that was partially shaded by the large walnut tree at the end of the detached garage. The garden down the hill always contained an abundance of veggies in every season of the year. I remember hanging off the side of the pool small enough to still have floating on when I took my first bite of raw carrot, fully coated with fresh dirt, because my uncle dared me I wouldn't. To this day, I still am not a carrot fan.

This was the same home that we gathered in every weekend to eat dinner together until Mamaw got sick. The black and white checkered tile floor, the decorative plates hung on the wall, the cast iron "working ladies" that now hang on my own mothers kitchen wall, the solid oak table - it was my special place, until it wasn't. (But when I'm ready to tell those stories, you'll understand why.)

I believe that we all have places like this. Places that we can't really find the words to describe to other people how you can still see them, feel them, smell them, as if you were still there. Is it the place that holds specific aspects of a memory together, is it the memories that help bring life back into the forgotten landscapes, or is it both? Mamaw and Papaw's House is a hub for a substantial amount of stories that all take place before 2004. Before her long-suffered passing, before the forfeit of responsibility, before the betrayal, before the move, but when the teaching of value was of most importance. Like when to count your loss in a black walnut battle.

It was like most sunny summer days, and all of the cousins had just finished ball games at the Keavy DAV and had all reconvened at the house, which was located about 7 minutes past the Mini Mart. On this particular Saturday, we had not been deemed "worthy" of a twisty swirl ice cream cone for fear it would ruin the dinner Mamaw was preparing. We had arrived at the house, and what was different about this particular day was Papaw (Eddie Joe) had just purchased a new-to-him pontoon boat, which required a thorough look-over by all the grown men at the house. There were 5 of us that ranged from my best guess, ages 10 to 4, and the goal was to find what we could outside to entertain ourselves and not get yelled at by our moms from the side porch screen door. Lucky for us - it was finally black walnut season!

All epic battles started with the same preparation, gather as many rock hard walnuts you could find by tucking them into pockets, taking layers of tees off to create cocoons for transport, scooping loose ones from the base of the tree with your whole forearm all in such a fury that you could almost make it back to your safe zone before the first nut cracked the back of your head open. In true backyard style game fashion, there is no real start and it only ends when someone gets seriously hurt, too many of the little kids have cried, or some mom calls you all into dinner.

All out war breaks loose - we're all frantically stuffing walnuts and hobbling to our posts, chucking fist size balls through the air aiming for anything that could possibly make a noise once hit, trash can lids, swimming pool covers, garage doors, cousins screaming in agony when you make a good shot to the thigh, Smokie the cat leaping into the woods for cover, and to our surprise our dads peeping from behind the building looking to get in on the action. Think of any hostage scene in a movie where the brave hero lurks in the back, assesses the situation, waits patiently for the singularly perfect moment to make his move, and comes out guns blazing?! I am sure that is exactly what all the women peering out the kitchen window saw happen as our dads appeared out from behind the detached garage.

Almost four whole minutes goes by before we have our first child catastrophe. My younger brother Jeremy, who I will confess I made my life's mission to "toughen him up", got hit - hard - right in the abdomen by an older cousin. He wailed and cried buckets all the way up the stairs into the house as my Mom threated to shut us all down if another one had to be rescued. My head was back in the game as soon as I realized the hard crack sound was immediately followed by a sheering pain through my toes because I had just taken a hit to the ankle bone from my dads first cousin - and did it hurt!

We were charting new waters with the additions of our male leaders, instead of our typical - run, throw, retreat, dodge tactic we ultimately found ourselves making new alliances with any grown man that wasn't our father. Much like on the ball field, they coached up. What I now realize is we were the key to reliving their former glory days in that moment. They had young eager minds willing to go with whatever strategy they came up with, fast enough to run a lap around the grounds to scout the enemy lines, and no matter who you didn't hit - we would always be impressed by the distance and power in the lethal throw. As you can imagine it took about 10 minutes into this new walnut battle development for things to get personal.

It was not uncommon for a vehicle bumper or side mirror to take a hit, but the impact of a hit from a 7 year old's arm post double header in a baseball game, and the force behind a 300 pound dad of 3 is quite substantial. It would also not be uncommon in our family to shrug off any minor damage, especially if they felt like they could use it as an after dinner excuse to get out and fix. Except it wasn't just any old brown S10's bumper that took this hit, it was the new pontoon boat. You see, my dad was easily the strongest man there, and what my dad lacked in words he made up for in action. The respect for his power comes knowing he possesses enough to hurt you, but he is strong-willed and disciplined enough not to.

My dad, Charles Robert Rice, was the second oldest of four siblings and the only boy. He grew up on the defense, and worked hard to manage the emotions of his sisters as well as his own, in physical ways they couldn't compete with. You call me something rude, my GI Joe just happens to amputate Barbie's left arm? That philosophy never changed once he had children. I am convinced I will never hear the words of a coach louder in my mind than of my defensive training in softball - "Catch it or get hit".

Mid-launch of a softball sized black walnut we could all feel the tension of the misfire. My dad had hauled off and hit a first cousin that was hell bent on retaliating, but paid no mind to the boat on the right side of his target. With one swift movement the walnut curved and into the boat it went with a deafening crack. Official end of the game.

It's been about 10 minutes after the boat incident and my brother decided to join us back outside after consuming an entire paper bowl of dry macaroni and purple Kool-Aid. As the oldest sibling, and one that is most annoyed by his presence, I decided to pick up a stray walnut from the floor of the boat (no doubt it was the same nut that caused the surrender). As if reading my mind or catching the irritated burning of his existence in my eyes from behind, I hear my dad sternly say, "Whitney, that's enough." What I chose to do next was not my finest hour, I will admit, but dad and I had been having such a good time. Surely one small thump on the head with one last walnut wouldn't be noticed, especially for a boy who cries all the time anyway. Before I could even get my pitching stance, I felt a shock like a bolt of lightening shatter throughout my body with an epicenter on my left rear thigh that branched up my spine and made even the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My dad would indeed get the last word, or for him, make the last move.

That was the last season we gathered walnuts at Mamaw and Papaw's house. That was the last season we played baseball or softball at the Keavy DAV. And that was the last time all of us cousins played alongside our dads, but we did.