I was reminded today that there is a reason you don’t see persimmons in grocery stores.

Down the road from where I live is a large persimmon tree. For the last seventeen years I have driven past it. Each fall I have told myself that I should stop and pick a few of the little orange orbs dangling from the low branches. Well, today was that day.

I had more in mind than just harvesting fruit as I was throwing them into my bucket. Persimmons have been a part of my life since childhood.

Back in the late 50s my father and a cousin, Gaines Hall, pulled a prank on another one of my city cousins, Allen Ray Foster. They were out on the farm when they walked upon a persimmon tree growing on a fence row. It was early in the year and they were still green. For those of you unfamiliar with green persimmons, biting into one is not for the faint of heart. Your mouth will instantly feel as if it is shriveling up. Add to that something of a flavor between sour and bitter to the tenth power. In short, they are awful. Unlike ripe persimmons which have a sweet flavor similar to a fig.

Well, my father and Gaines were a lot more knowledgeable about persimmons than Allen Ray. They picked some from the tree, plopped them in their mouths and pretended to enjoy eating them. Not to be outdone, Allen Ray picked one and chomped down on it. As soon as he did there was panic in his eyes.

“What’s happening to me!” he screamed.

My father and Gaines pretended to be concerned. “Oh, no! Did you pick a bad one?”

“My mouth! My mouth! What’s happening to my mouth?” He was beginning to slur.

“Goodness. If you bit into a bad one your mouth will begin shrinking up. The only thing you’re going to be able to eat are peas, and then you’ll only be able to push one pea at a time into your mouth.”

With that said, Allen Ray began to cry. He had always had a healthy appetite. He put his index fingers in his mouth and began pulling in opposite directions hoping to keep his mouth from closing shut.

“No, no, no!”

At the same time, he turned and made a mad dash toward our house. He was screaming so loud the neighbors down the road could hear him. By the time my father and Gaines made it back home there were two mad mommas, one mad wife, and one very ticked Allen Ray Foster.

That memory was on my mind as I was throwing ripe persimmons into the bucket today. When I got home I offered Tina a couple of the better looking ones. She declined. She had heard the story about Allen Ray before. I knew the difference between a green persimmon and a ripe one, so I had to take a bite for old times sake. It was ripe, just not ripe enough. That old shriveling sensation returned. It was just as awful as it was when I was a kid. Six were planted in starter pots. The rest I set out at the edge of the yard for possums and raccoons. Perhaps the orange ones will appeal to their more refined taste.

As for me, it’s just another day on the ridge. I was hoping we’d have peas for supper. Nope. However, the baby carrots slid in fairly easy.

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Rick Algood
October 22, 2019