Still I can remember how it was as a youngster when my mother would send me out into the orchard surrounding our little camphouse to gather up all the pecans in one big empty potato sack so that she could make one of her famous pecan pies. All over the wood I roamed, over an area roughly a square mile in measure, gathering up nuts wherever I went. And when evening would come I would return to the house on the hill, lugging my big fat sack of nuts all the way.
Once there, I would dine with glee on cracked nuts aplenty while Mother made her tasty pies famous all around our little village until, at last, I would always eat one bad nut that would spoil my appetite for days on end as it set in a sickness deep within my belly. Yet every year we returned to our house in the orchard and the gathering would resume once more.
Now, after all these years and all these miles, I guess that's mainly what I recall of our life down there...a bunch of nuts, that is...and, of course, the bad one in the middle of it all that was inevitably me. Gone now are those days and gone, too, are the trees but I do remember.
Will Mayo
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