A large horse chestnut tree stands in one corner of our front yard shading more than half of the grass that lies between the sidewalks leading to each of the units in the row house. A good portion of the old paving stones that stretch in front of the house also sit in the tree’s shadow while serving to crack the chestnuts that fall from the branches above. The tree has lustily thrown itself into autumn with an obscene display of chestnuts, showing wear only in the hint of bronze dispersed throughout the foliage. The nuts, clad in a bristly green shell, plop loudly onto the pavers and bounce on nearby cars, revealing polished brown fruit that glisten in new found exposure to the sun. While the chestnuts fall less noisily onto the grass, the busy dropping and rolling resembles a number of simultaneous bocce matches going on at once.
With such tantalizing temptation, I expected that the squirrels would gather in large numbers in this hoarder’s paradise. I did spy a gorgeous hawk the other morning sitting in the nearby oak tree casually surveying the area with an almost imperceptible turn of his head. But unmoved as he was by the squirrels chasing each other around the thick, grooved trunk below him I doubt that he posed more than the usual threat to groups of squirrels preparing themselves for winter. Alas, the multitude of urban rodents with the cute furry tails remains at bay, leaving me to ponder the oddity at length. Had chestnuts gone out of fashion on the culinary palette of squirrels? Were the winter stores already filled with fish crackers and other finger foods taken from strollers in the area parks? (I have often seen the squirrels forage unabashedly above distressed babies, helplessly tethered while being robbed of their edible pacifiers.) Did last year’s mild winter create a false sense of security for squirrels that negated the need to prepare for months of cold and snow? (I, too, am hoping for another “unusual” winter void of bitter cold and icy mounds of aging snow.)
The answer, it turns out, is not so complicated and rather expected. The squirrels are not stashing chestnuts because Rem is getting to them first. I never have pretended to understand what churns inside of my children’s heads to make them act the way they do but even so, I am stupefied by Rem’s addiction to chestnuts. Stockpiles of chestnuts fill the house. Mounds imprison every row of books on Rem’s bookshelves in his room. They line the stairs and sit atop every post along the way to the second floor (these often fall and produce tripping hazards as they roll underfoot). Chestnuts spill from every vase, tall glass and container in the house that Rem could reach without assistance. A huge pile fills the front vestibule necessitating an act of finesse in order to access the house where one’s foot slides the pile gently to the side (careful not to topple the peak) and uses one’s calf to keep the pile at bay while slowly opening the door only wide enough to slide in and in one quick motion hopping into the house and letting the door slam. Ten or twenty chestnuts usually find their way inside and then scatter into various rooms because my other children are so accepting that nothing ever seems odd to them such as a heap of chestnuts in the hall (chestnuts could easily be tossed back outside). The children kick the pretty little things out of the way and go about their business.
Rem can be found under the chestnut tree day or night, with or without shoes and often in pajamas. Sometimes he loads his shirt, holding the seamed edge with one hand and filling with the other. His pants pockets bulge comically as he tries to walk away. He can’t. He returns to the tree with an incessant need to possess every chestnut the tree can bear. And it seems that the tree is enjoying this uncontrollable urge in Rem, laughingly bestowing more and more nuts under a glorious umbrella of foliage ready to surrender into a blaze of color before settling down for a wintry slumber.
