OLD SPORT LOVED PEANUTS

Old Sport Loved Peanuts

The peanuts grew on the bank of a stream that gurgled through the south pasture of our farm at Tame Valley.  My siblings and I had to help pick the peanuts when it was harvest time. I hated pulling the vines from the clinging, dark soil. I didn’t like shaking the dirt from the plants.  So I complained a lot. Didn’t do any good. I still had to help.

I preferred playing with our dogs, Old Sport and little Brownie. But I couldn’t play until all the peanuts were harvested.  Mama told me not to let Sport eat the peanuts.  He liked peanuts. But I knew Mama thought our big family would need them for snacks. So I obeyed.

Later, that winter our family gathered in the living room when snow fell like goose feathers flying through the air.  Mama parched peanuts in a tin pan on the wood stove.  The peanuts tasted so good, warm and salted.  When Mama wasn’t looking, I was tempted to drop some peanuts on the floor for Sport.  But I didn’t.

And I regretted it because Sport died the next spring before planting time. When I got older, I knew that if Mama had known Sport would die, she would have given him her share of the peanuts.  And I would have given him mine also. © Freeda Baker Nichols
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Blueblood

My grandmother.
Her braided hair wound around
her head twice. Her blue eyes
smiled when her lips did.
She sang delightfully–
like the voice of a robin in April.
Her hands were warm and strong.
They made awesome chocolaty
sweets! She gave me hugs–
whether I wanted them or not.
Her dog, Bulger, toothless and cranky,
was a bulldog. The highest breed.

Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols