Down by the Shoals

Wrapped in my bright orange Marmot fleece jacket, a false security blanket in the gun riddled woods of a hunting season, I stride into the local produce shack. The boarded up windows, and closed wooden door, propped open in better weather, are familiar. I am undeterred by the darkness of the little place nestled against a dark creek beneath an even darker wooded hillside. “Open, Come on In.” scribbled across a little white paper on the door catches my eye as I enter into the dark shed. A middle aged couple merge into each other and over their chairs and greet me between sips of ice tea. I mumble something back, still frustrated by the uncomfortable pause as my brain searches to translate their salutation and craft an appropriate response (hi, hey y’all, howdy, afternoon). Even with overhead fluorescent lights the cramped space feels dimly lit. A smaller world plays out on the black and white TV. It’s an old movie, something from the early 60s probably, involving a boy, a girl, their father. I am drawn to the blaring sound and beams of light. A man, 60? 80?, sporting an authentic orange cammo hat walks towards me and says something. Or maybe not. He is roaming, he is mumbling. He is either speaking to me or the middle aged couple or to the wall of glass jars in an accent so thick that it defies comprehension or he’s exploring in his own language. Lester, the proprietor, is procuring boiled peanuts, our state’s official snack food thanks to recent legislation, from the metal vats in the far corner for a younger couple. She likes them spicy and she’s in luck because he announces to everyone, that he has “Leesyanna style.” She smiles. I grab the jug of plain old cider from the shelves of Scuppernongs and inventive combinations of fruity juices and forage for apples.

Locals sell apples from North Carolina. In late fall you know the good stands are the ones that bring the apples in at night like Lester. By January, no one around here has anything out, and most of the stands, like the one down the road that advertises KNIVES and produce on their sign are closed. My eyes move around the peanuts, dried apple rings, and preserves to the center display where my brain registers only sundry, used junk possibly not for sale. I have looked at this before and still can’t recall what is on this island except for the fact that it is not fresh produce or a food item of interest. There on the floor is a box of apples. Could this be the last box Lester has for the season? A couple months ago the place was clogged with varieties proudly displayed on tables. I rifle through the old apples tossed aside like last week’s bread and fill my cloth sack, providing entertainment for the couple in their chairs. The old man wanders around me snacking on a bag of peanuts. Lester is talking to the young couple at the cash register. I put my jug and sack on the counter and look at the bowl of roasted peanuts bearing the invitation PLEASE just one. I haven’t eaten one of Lester’s peanuts: roasted, salted, or boiled. I am embarrassed to admit I have never even had a boiled peanut, never felt compelled to stop at Lester’s or anyone else’s peanut stand to let the damp mush of juices slide down my face as my tongue fished the hot, young nuts from their soggy shells. Now it’s getting to be too late as good boiled peanuts are already out of season. My reverie of missed opportunity is broken by Lester’s question about the weather. How about the snow? It’s beautiful I say. It was easy for me enjoy the winter wonderland we woke to the other morning from my expansive hillside perch and my lack of travel obligations. But the roads he cautions, we’re supposed to get more tomorrow. Be careful. I thank him and nod at the middle aged couple still in chairs sipping iced tea, watching the movie. The old man with peanuts steps aside. I head into the chill afternoon inspired by Lester to have a good one.