Page 33 - Firehouse Pond

MY MOTHER AND THE PECAN TREES

My mother was small and large. She was physically tiny, barely five feet tall

and never weighing more than ninety-five pounds and that was when as a
soldier, home on leave, I picked her up and jumped into my sister’s
swimming pool with her in my arms. My mother never learned to swim. I
was in big trouble when she got out of the water.

She got out of the cold water of the pool and I immediately realized that I had
jumped right into hot water with her. It was fun and I will always remember

that day.

I recall that mom was always trying to please my father. She failed no matter

how hard she tried. He was never pleased. My mother never went to school
past the third grade. She worked in the cotton fields, a shoe factory, and a
commercial laundry. My mother smoked heavily and drank. She was not a

drunk, but she did drink every night; perhaps to ease her emotional and
physical pains.

We were poor and picked cotton by hand. You know that by now. But what

you didn’t know, is that my mother was a tree climber; a pecan tree climber
to be specific. She was smart and clever (there is a difference), funny, and
always on the lookout for ways to put money in the little chewing tobacco

pouch Grandpa had given her.

My mother would keep her eye on the pecan trees in and around Charleston.
She would get permission from the tree owner to take only the pecans “up

high” and from the trees that the owner cared less about. She would use one
of the smaller kid’s sized cotton-picking sacks to gather the pecans.

I remember going on pecan collecting missions with my mother. She would
climb to the top of the trees to knock the fruit to the ground. My siblings and
I would load up the sack, all the while knowing that a movie at the

McCutchen Theater was our bonus for having helped without complaining.