My dad loved walnuts. He liked peanuts and cashews too, but I think walnuts were his favorite. In West Virginia we have black walnuts. They tumble down from the walnut trees in the fall, ready for the taking. In addition to having a penchant for walnuts, dad knew every back road and winding gravel passage in Wayne county. These two things led to spending some Saturday afternoons “out in the country” with dad, gathering walnuts.

In addition to his love of walnuts and his knowledge of every hidden path through Wayne county, for a while dad also had a 1968 Chevy truck with a floor shift. It was a work truck and was a mixture of grey primer, orange paint, and white paint. Sometimes the three of us would go, my dad and I and my brother. Sometimes just dad and I. We would take off on a nice fall Saturday afternoon in search of walnuts. All you needed was some trash bags to put them in, some work gloves to keep your hands from getting stained, and a six pack of Stroh’s beer. These were the tools of the trade. The ride out to some spot dad probably knew from some indiscretion in his youth was as much part of the adventure as gathering up the walnuts. Dad would take his time and wind through the countryside on two lane and sometimes even one lane roads until you forgot which direction you were headed in and where you were. He’d tell us stories as we passed certain places that were focal points in his life for one reason or another. There was no traffic, no other vehicles, only the beautiful turning leaves surrounding the truck as we meandered up into the West Virginia hills. He’d finally pull over at some nondescript setting and say, “Ok, get out”. There on the roadside would be walnut trees and we’d see the nuts in their greenish black hulls lying on the ground. Dad’s job was to drink the Stroh’s and supervise while my brother and I picked up the hulls and dropped them into the bags. We’d take a break and have a snack we’d brought with us – maybe a bag of chips and a Pepsi. Finally when the beer was gone and the bags were full, we’d head home with our findings.

The next step was to let them ripen and soften so the hard hulls were easier to remove. We’d lay the hulls out in the yard on the plastic bags for a couple of days. This allowed the hulls to begin to soften and dry out a little bit. When the hulls were no longer solid green, but a splotchy green and black to fully black, they were ready to come off the walnuts. This is when you really had to wear the gloves if you didn’t want black stained hands. Once all the hulls were removed, the nuts were sprayed off to clean the shells and then we’d leave them sit for another day or so to dry off. Then they all went into containers or bowls and were ready to crack open and eat.

I remember these outings in detail because it wasn’t so much about getting walnuts as it was about seeing my dad. He was in his element, out on some back road with a beer like the good old boy he was. No matter where we ended up he knew exactly where we were even if we didn’t. I’m sure that he’d probably gathered walnuts with his brothers and/or sisters growing up, and he was sharing that knowledge with us. It was a simple task that we could do easily and something that he could share with us and spend time doing with us. It was his way of being our dad. Besides, the walnuts were kind of like my dad. They could be hard and even dark on the outside, but inside was a bit of a hidden, soft goodness. It was a lot of work for just a small bite of walnut. It was a lot of work to find that soft spot in my dad but I knew it was there underneath all the rest. It would later become more evident after the birth of his granddaughters. He displayed it easily for them. My brother and I had to struggle to remove that hull, stained our hands, and put the work in to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Maybe by our work, he was more accessible to them later in life. At least, I like to think so.

Besides, who doesn’t like walnuts?