Writing yesterday’s post on a few of my favorite fall fruits reminded me of one of my favorite memories. These two fruits take me back to Enigma, Ga. My great grandmothers home stood in the midst of pecan trees and old farming land. Grape vines grew wild and crazy all over the fence rows and the front lawn was lined with Azaleas and Camellias that bloomed with an invigorating fragrance. At any time you could see squirrels jumping from tree to tree and rabbits dashing in and out of the low hanging grape vines and daylilies. It was a veritable childhood heaven.
For some reason, it seemed like October and November were colder back then. I know they were. I remember wearing, or rather being commanded to wear at least a light weight jacket to go outside. Even though I would promptly take it off as soon as the cool air hit me and I was out of my mother’s sight. One would think that critters would be more scarce in the cooler months of the year. This was not the case at my grandmother’s. There was always something to chase or catch and always trouble to be found. This is how I came upon persimmons.
The house sat closer to the road. It’s white washed boards aging but still standing against the odds. Bushes and shrubbery of all sizes gathered at its base. The front porch was littered with potted plants and stray leaves that had fallen from the pecan trees that surrounded the house. I spent many hours on the porch swing watching the rain storms come in off the fields in the distance and leave as quickly as they came. It was on those painted blue, concrete steps that I built my first rabbit trap with my cousin. My mother always worried I would fall down those slippery steps and break my neck. It never happened.
One particular fall day, there was a blustery breeze that came through pushing leaves from the porch and replacing them with new ones. The sky was scattered with heavy rain clouds and the sun never peaked. It was one of those fall days that most people spend inside. Not me however. I headed right out that rickety screen door and into the grayed world outside. I wandered around the old barns and grape vines that had been scavenged a month before. The only thing left was the vines themselves and a few golden yellow leaves that were browning at the edges.
On the backside of the house stood what we called the well house. It was small and covered with screen. It held a well with concrete sides and a large and very heavy cover. When my mother was a child she recollects pulling water from this well which still holds water today. I will never know what it was about that well house, but I never went inside. You could see straight into it. Every empty mason jar on the shelf, the old tools in the wooden tool box that sat upon the well cover and the baskets that laid next to it. But I never set foot inside it. I never even tried.
Between that well house and the road was a number of trees, shrubs, and flowers. Nothing out of the ordinary for this place. A winding path led between the main house and the well house that brought you back to the front porch. I will never know what made me stop and examine the back side of the well house. Maybe it was the camellias, maybe it was the great magnolia tree leaves that scattered the ground and crunched under my feet, but I found them. Hidden by the far fence row stood a medium sized tree. It was nothing exciting and kind of resembled a dogwood tree except for these magnificent looking, orange balls of fruit that hung daintily from its branches. I had no idea what they were. Me, being the daring soul that I am grabbed one up and just took a bite. It was terrible! I immediately spit it out and took off running back inside, orange ball of yuck in my hand. Now for all you parents out there- you know kids do this often. Run in and drop something for you to make a face at and inevitably clean up. I had not yet thought about parenthood or the possibility thereof, so I did what all kids do. “Mom, what is this? It’s gross!” BLOP! I dropped it right on the kitchen table. My mother being used to my antics as she was. Made a small grin and proceeded to tell me about persimmons and asked where I had found this one. Of course, that was right after she scolded me for eating it without washing it first. She had completely forgotten that the tree had been there at all. We trampled back over the fallen leaves and occasional weed and I took my mother to see this tree. She was shocked that it was still standing. We picked the persimmons we could carry and took them back inside. There again, I tried to eat a few slices of persimmon and it just wasn’t something I had a taste for.
Many years later, after my sweet grandmother passed away and my family’s farm was sold, I just randomly found these little miracles of flavor again on isle at a local farmers market. I bought a few, mainly for nostalgia since I remembered them tasting bitter. Back at my home, when slicing through their fleshy skin I realized that so much time had passed since I had first tried one of these. So much had changed. This time they were sweeter. This time I liked them. Maybe it was that my taste buds grew up as I did. Maybe it was the farmer that grew them knew what he was doing and took extra care of his crop. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the places that those persimmons take me and the memories that flood my mind with every bite. The lines of pecan trees, the tall porch columns, concrete steps and summers spent in a childhood heaven. Or maybe it was the feeling of having my loving family back home to teach me about fruits you wash before you eat.
