JOY ALONG THE WAY: PERSIMMONS AND BLACK WALNUTS

As usual, in October, I've been meandering along lazy, old lanes of long ago. Some of them are gone, eaten up by bulldozers that seemingly can't tolerate these old, originally cattlemade, or, perhaps, Indian-made trails. But there are a few left, untouched by "progress." Along these few, I found a suitable number of persimmon and black walnut trees to steady my sagging fear that a hundred years from now, both trees will be on the endangered list and the old lanes will be covered by houses, concrete or scrubby third growth of cut-over forests.

I had to stop and stare at one persimmon tree, heavily laden with its dusty orange fruit. It was a study in symmetry, perfectly shaped on all sides, limbs in exactly the right places and spaces. And dangling from what seemed to be two hundred twigs were the little globes of goodness. The baubles of a New York Fifth Avenue Christmas tree could not have been more evenly and artfully strung and hung than those on "my" persimmon tree.

I thought of lines from Gray's Elegy, but substituted my own words, "Full many a persimmon tree is born to blush unseen and waste its fruit without ever being Jeaned."

But this one, up in the Ozarks, was.

I have a warm, fuzzy spot in my heart for persimmons. To speak hyperbolically, they, many times, saved my life!

Lunch at the Loughboro School was at twelve noon. Dismissal was at four o'clock p.m. There was a three mile walk home after dismissal. Unless Lou and I stashed a biscuit in lunch box or pocket for a two o'clock p.m. recess life-saving tidbit, we who studied hard, recited well, played baseball on a hillside where the ball, if not stopped in some manner, could roll a half mile and drop into the river, were nearly starved by the time we got half way home. But, behold! There, alongside our path was, in the smoky autumn days, a persimmon tree from which we could freely partake of its fruit. We fully partook.

At other times and other places there were pawpaws and even a turnip patch that belonged to a neighbor, but that made no difference then. Turnips were shared without asking. A turnip washed in the St. Francis River, teeth peeled, was a staple of early school-to-home going days.

I mustn't imply that Mama didn't stuff our lunch boxes. We just got hungry as do all healthy children between noon and six o'clock p.m. supper.

Persimmon pudding was not then on our country living menu. In my town/city days I've made persimmon pudding which brings us around to black walnut trees, the route being that persimmon pudding is only good, in my opinion, when it is fully filled with black walnut kernels.

Sometimes I feel that Missouri doesn't take full advantage of the cash crop of walnuts. Along these old country lanes I've spoken of and, of course, other places, are walnut trees dropping this year's bumper crop and not many people picking it up. And, believe me, the kernels are pricey at the stores

The sticky thing about this is that the lumber from the black walnut tree is very valuable. It would take many years of hulling, cracking and extracting saleable kernels to make up for the cash one might get for the sale of the whole tree.

I was grown and well on my way in housewivery before Mama pointed out to me that when a recipe called for walnuts, it meant English walnuts. Rubbish! Any recipe calling for walnuts can be improved by using black walnuts, especially in a recipe for persimmon pudding.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.