Sheri Wren Haymore
Author
November is a month of transition. No longer Autumn, but not quite Winter, November’s wind can have us reaching for a jacket, while the shorter days might hold us indoors. This can be depressing for some folks and invigorating for others. I find that with the leaves off the trees, we get a new perspective of dark limbs against blue sky that is particularly artistic. I also enjoy the vistas of the Blue Ridge Mountains that had been previously hidden behind summer foliage from vantage points all over Surry County.
My favorite thing about November has nothing to do with the weather or the view, however. My favorite thing is pecan pie. I’m talking about pecan pie made the way Mama and Aunt Margaret always made it, more buttery, sweet, and nutty than the gooey stuff that some folks call pie.
When I was growing up, every Thanksgiving my family would journey east to Nahunta, North Carolina, where my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Milo farmed and ran a feed mill. My cousins and I, along with my sisters, would tromp through fields, ride bikes, sing silly songs, climb on the rooftops of the farm’s outbuildings (for which we got in trouble!), and pile up on the floor to play board games and sleep. Best of all was Thanksgiving lunch! I suppose Aunt Margaret roasted a turkey, but the foods that stick in my memory are these: smoky country ham and flaky homemade biscuits; butter beans, made creamy with the addition of an okra pod and butter; collard greens, salty-sweet with bacon and sugar; peppery crowder peas; fluffy sweet potatoes whipped with butter and brown sugar; and — the star of the meal for me — pecan pie.
And where did the pecans for those Thanksgiving pies come from? The pecan grove on my aunt and uncle’s property, of course! I remember Daddy craved those fresh pecans so much that every Thanksgiving he’d shake the trees for any remaining nuts and gather them to take home for Mama to use in appetizers, salads, and desserts. The cracking and picking of those precious brown nuts once we returned to Mt. Airy was a ritual event. Using the silver nutcracker and picks stored upright in the center of the wooden nut bowl, Daddy would carefully crack each nut so that Mama had perfect, whole pecan halves for her many varied recipes.
Pecans can be a persnickety crop. The trees are particular about the kind of soil they like, and it will take several years of growth before a tree produces nuts. Even after repeated abundant harvests, a mature tree may take a break and yield a disappointingly slim harvest one year for no discernable reason.
Even in a good year, you can’t hurry the process. The pecans will let you know when they’re ready: the green husks will open and the nut shells will turn their signature, rich shade of brown and begin to fall from the trees on their own. It does no good to commence shaking the tree before the pecans are ready.
Once the pecans have signaled their readiness, then it’s time to shake the trees. And no, commercial growers don’t climb the trees and shake limbs like my daddy did. Specially designed tree-shaking machinery will pass through the orchard and, with a mechanical arm, grasp each tree by its trunk and shake it heartily. Next, a tractor with a blower attachment will blow the fallen nuts away from the trees, followed by a sweeper tractor that moves the nuts into rows. Lastly, the harvester drives over the rows and blows the pecans into a wagon.
Life can be persnickety like a pecan tree and complicated like the harvesting process, can’t it? We might have an ambitious dream that we know is great, but the soil (circumstances) may not be ideal, or the timing could be wrong. Even the best ideas can involve an anxious waiting period, and prosperous seasons might be followed by a lean season, or even disaster (Aunt Margaret’s pecan trees were destroyed by a storm). And sometimes we need professional help to sort it out and show us how to pick up the pieces, like the pecan harvesting process.
My friend, whom we’ve dubbed Storysmith Susan, recently recorded a talk on the topic of impermanence. She spoke of sandcastles, and how even the most beautiful things we build in life can be lost to the next wave. Specifically, Susan spoke of her health, the home she grew up in, the loss of friends and family, the pivots and vagaries of her career. She recounted the story when, as a five-year-old child, she was given a devastating diagnosis with a survival chance in the single digits. She told how her parents separately went to the altar of their church to beg, bargain, sob, and yes, even scream at God. Each then squared their shoulders, and returned clear-eyed to the doctors to ask, “Okay, what’s next?” (As it turned out, Susan’s initial diagnosis was incorrect and there was a cure. Even then, her parents didn’t waste time moaning over the error; they focused on moving forward into a full life with their child.)
Susan’s story reminds us that we can be fully invested in every aspect of our life, and still hold it all loosely, knowing that life will change with the next wave. Lean seasons are as much a part of living as prosperous ones. And yet, can we face it all with joy and courage? Can we learn to square our shoulders against disappointment and ask, “What’s next?” Can we accept inevitable waiting periods and learn not to “shake the tree” before the timing is right?
I believe we can, with faith. With persistence. With assurance that underneath it all is a goodness that is unshakeable. And maybe, when we pick up the pieces, we’ll discover that whatever comes next can be as sweet as pecan pie.
