July Notes
Tanagers, peanut essays, and Wild Things story time š¦
The tanagers have been taunting me since April. Youād think a bright red bird would be easy to spot, but these jokers are an excellent tease. They are forever coaxing me into the woods with their delightful little chirps, and forever hiding high in the canopy out of sight. One evening, just after the sun had set, one condescended to perch in the dogwood next to the house. Could I hear it? Yes. Could I see it. Of course not.
Last week, I FINALLY laid my eyes on both a summer and scarlet tanager. Only with binoculars and only for a max 10 seconds before they flew away. Iām confident my feelings were on par with Spainās Ferran Torres in the 106th minute of the World Cup Final.
I normally have some existential metaphor here, but I donāt. Iām just that jazzed about finally seeing these little gents that I need an outlet to talk about it besides my family because they are sadly over it. Also, ALSO, I figured out the source of a strange hissing noise Iāve been hearing at dusk most evenings. Itās a barred owl. The fact itās taken me all summer to spot it (right above my head!) says a thing or two about their frighteningly silent flying abilities.
Okay enough about birds.
I. Listers š¦
Okay but one more thing about birds. This documentary is hilarious, a bit crass, 100 percent enjoyable. Sadly, I canāt remember who recommended it to me (if it was you, my endless thanks). Two brothers set out in a minivan to find and list as many bird species as possible in the continental U.S. in a year. It turns bird watching into a competition and itās fascinating even to people not obsessed with birds. Free on YouTube, too!
II. Crape Myrtles?
Hate on them all you want, but theyāre a nice pop in the midst of Julyās flower drop. Iām on a constant color hunt this month (besides zinnias, those blessed heat lovers) and while I one hundred percent think the South has completely done the crape myrtle to death, we have two in our yard blooming rn and theyāre lovely. Instead of crape murdering them in the spring (chopping everything off halfway up), I thinned out a bunch of branches in January. I think they look elegant, and less like a fountain of twigs splaying from a gnarled knob.
(Very) Short Essay
I wrote this piece for a food anthology and it didnāt make the cut. Iāve been searching for a home for it ever since, and as itās peanut season, I thought Iād share it here for the time being.
Peanuts
My two-year-old daughter is perched atop our kitchen island, heels hitting against the cabinet doors, popping peanuts into her mouth one by one. She can eat only as fast as I can open, and sheās content to beat a rhythm with her feet while she waits.
Iām glad she likes them. I want her to. I slip one into my mouth and let the tangy brine pull the memories up like fish in a net. Iām back in my grandparentsā kitchen. I can hear the sizzle and shake of the pressure cooker. I can smell the salty water. A horde of cousins clusters around a long wooden table, shoveling fresh boiled peanuts onto paper plates. We pop them open and suction the soft nuts out of the shells with our mouths, slurping as much juice as we can. Nobody says it, but weāre all racing to see who can finish first and get back outside to the pool. Itās summer in south Georgia, hotter than hell, but we donāt care. Soon all thatās left of our presence is a pile of shells.
I let the nostalgia overwhelm me. An ache older than time spreads across my chestāa longing for a place, a people, who are long gone.
I did not boil these peanuts for my daughter. My mother did, from a bag she grabbed on her way back from her childhood home. The upkeep has been a ten-year battleāsheās packed, cleaned, fixed, and rented long enough, and now sheās ready to sell. Ten years ago I would have opposed this decision, but time has a funny way of loosening your grip.
My five-yearāold son has joined my daughter at the island. Heās less enthusiastic about the peanuts, but Iām glad for his presence. It allows me to indulge.
āDid you know my Granddaddy was a peanut farmer?ā I ask him. āDid you know these peanuts are from the same place he grew them when I was a little girl?ā
My son is still young enough to be curious. Did your Granddaddy have a tractor? Do peanuts grow on trees? Can we go pick some?
I canāt bring memories back into being, any more than I can recreate them for my own children. Perhaps grief is the better way.
Again I slide back into memory. This time Iām in the bucket seat of a pickup truck, squished between my mother and grandfather. Iām sitting on the cup holder, which means thereās a red solo full of dip juice in my hands. I pray with every bump of dusty dirt road that it doesnāt spill. The tobacco smells sticky and sweet, but I can just catch a whiff of Wrigleyās doublemint chewing gum. My grandfather offers me a stick as we pull up to the field. The peanut plants have been pulled up and bundled, undersides exposing raw fleshy nuts ready for harvest. Most of these will be bagged and sold, but some will make their way into my grandmotherās pressure cooker. And my belly.
She gave me one before she passed away, a pressure cooker that is. Today it sits beneath my children in the back of the island cabinetāIāve yet to master the art of boiling peanuts. I know itās a confidence issue, every time the pressure rises Iām terrified Iāve done something wrong and the cooker is going to explode. Inevitably it does not, yet still it seems the only time we get fresh boiled peanuts is when someone else makes them. Theyāve become a delicacy.
Empty shells are now scattered across the island. A bowl holds a handful of remains, and I slip them in the fridge to be enjoyed later on. Ritual complete, Iām left with imprints of my grandparents in my mind, fresh like the peanut tang in my mouth. The reminder is bittersweet, and Iām grateful.
Their home will soon be sold. And even if I had the money, I donāt know if I would buy it. The pool is gone. The wooden table is gone. The peanut fields are being farmed by someone else. I canāt bring memories back into being, any more than I can recreate them for my own children. Perhaps grief is the better way.
And yet. I still havenāt gotten rid of that pressure cooker.
P.S. Your reward for making it this far is the knowledge that I will be doing a Wild Things story time at The Spring Park Inn next Saturday, August 8. Iād love to see you!
