Red-tailed hawks soared overhead or perched with seeming disinterest on fence posts—their large white chests glistening in the sun of a new day.
Most of the trees alongside the road were dormant and bare. The monotony was broken by the occasional evergreen and the odd dusty gold orbs hanging from the branches and lying at the feet of the black walnut trees.
A frugal farm wife like Lisa Montgomery would see bounty in that wild crop. Lovers of the black walnut gathered up the fruit this time of year and spread them across their basement floors to dry. When the outer shells darkened and turned brittle, they’d carry them out to the driveway and run them over a few times to dislodge the inner shell from its covering. Anyone who attempted to remove the outer surface by hand would have fingers marked for weeks with a deep brown stain that no amount of Lava soap scrubbing could wear away.
The uncovered shells would not yield to a nutcracker. It took a hammer to shatter that surrounding casing and retrieve the nutmeat.
