The Walnut Man Poem by Carla J Nelson

The Walnut Man

He died in July at the age of 91,
And I did not mourn his passing.
He was a crotchety old man with nothing for me
But vast silences and terse words.
But it is Fall now - a glorious October day,
And this afternoon, I felt his loss.
He always came in Autumn,
To gather walnuts that had fallen from our trees.
He would fill his car with them,
Front seat, back seat, trunk and all.
Over the years, in all the hours he was here,
I remember him saying only three things:
'I came to pick up the walnuts.'
'They don't look too big this year.'
'I don't bother with 'em when they look like that.'
Still he filled his baskets and loaded his car,
Leaving without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.
He whiled away many winter hours, they say,
Hulling the walnuts and drying them.
Others told us he had a special way of cracking them.
The nuts came out of the shell in large pieces.
He sold them to a local candy maker,
Who paid a handsome price.

The crop is large this year,
And I think even he would have to admit,
Their size and quality are exceptional.
But he will not be coming to harvest them.
And so, I gather the nuts alone and think of him.
One by one I put them in the wheelbarrow.
Not destined these to be regaled in sweet confections,
To be displayed in glass cases, demanding fine prices.
Instead, they will be heaped along the fence rows,
To be carried off by hungry squirrels.
An art, they say - his way of cracking nuts.
Obviously it is now a lost art.
And so this afternoon, for a little while,
I must grieve for him,
Here under the walnut trees,
Which no longer bear their fruits
For his special talent.