Sam and Eli Reynolds assist Elaine Ingram in preparing pawpaw/wild black walnut bread. Bruce Ingram
“Grandchildren are children only once,” might well be the theme of our new columnist.
It’s a rainy early November morning when Sam and Eli, ages 9 and 7 respectively, ring our doorbell in their usual way—at least a half dozen frenetic slams on the buzzer. The boys live across the hollow from Elaine’s and my Botetourt County, Virginia, home. One of the best decisions my wife and I ever made came 11 years ago when we cut off a slice of our 38 acres so that our daughter Sarah and her husband David (and hopefully our future grandchildren, as well) could live nearby.
In past decades here in the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was traditional for multiple generations to dwell in the same farmhouse or nearby on family land. A tradition, frankly, that is one of the best things about the culture of these highlands. Throughout the year, Elaine and I try to help with the rearing of the boys any way we can, from the mundane (such as serving as sitters or chauffeurs) to mentoring as in reinforcing their parents’ values.
On this particular morning, Sam and Eli have come to help me crack wild black walnuts which we gathered from our land in early October. I had explained to the boys that I like to let walnuts dry and age for a month or so before cracking. And now is the time to extract the nutmeat to pair with pawpaws that we likewise gathered from our hollow earlier in autumn. Later in the morning, Elaine will show the boys how to make pawpaw/wild black walnut bread—a regional delicacy for sure.
Predictably, an argument immediately breaks out between the boys as to who will first wield the hammer in the sublimely glorious task of smashing walnuts. As opposed to the humdrum chore of employing a pick to tediously extract miniscule amounts of nutmeat. I settle the squabble by proclaiming that each boy will have the assignment of cracking six walnuts and also will be responsible for deploying the pick to remove nutmeat from his brother’s fractured walnuts. I also place a bowl between the twosome where they are to place the hulled nuts, and warn them not to be careless and knock it over. I also regret not bringing a hammer for both boys.
Later, when I share with Elaine my frustration about not having brought a second hammer, she sees the matter differently. “You’re lucky each boy didn’t have his own hammer,” she says. “Can you imagine what kind of mischief they could have gotten into?”
Order restored, we quickly vanquish the nuts and I praise the boys for not tipping over the bowl. Almost immediately, ironically, I somehow manage to upend the nut bowl with an errant elbow.
Bowl refilled, we enter the kitchen where Elaine reigns. Wiser in the ways of young males than her husband, she has already arranged for each boy to have his own egg, flour and sugar to add to the bread mix. After the pans are positioned in the oven, Elaine announces that she will invite the boys back for bread in a few days when the taste and aroma of the black walnuts has had time to suffuse throughout the loaf.
Grandchildren are children only once, and Elaine and I want to make sure that we savor these seasons and years with the boys. We don’t even mind if they possess no earthly idea on how to properly ring a doorbell. It’s a gift to have grandsons living across the hollow and there are life lessons to impart to them.
The story above first appeared in our November / December 2022 issue.
