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Chestnut Magic Makes The Tears Go and Come

By Gregory Ross

November in Lancaster, New York, near Buffalo, is bleak. Gray skies, bone bare trees that just a few weeks before were majestic in their spectrum of colors: gold, red, yellow, magenta and even a royal purple. But, by November, the trees are skeletal. The one last bit of flesh on the bones of these trees is on the Chestnut, which bears a bitter fruit nicknamed the horsechestnut. In November of 1970, three months out of the Navy, the weather, the landscape and my emotional state were in discordant harmony.

As a child these chestnuts were prized for a game we called "Cracking". You drilled a hole in the biggest chestnut you could find and hung it from an old shoelace. If your dad's work boots were worn enough, you got a leather shoelace — sweet. The game went like this: you held your chestnut out at arm's length. Your opponent swung his chestnut and hit yours as hard as he could making a cracking sound. Winning the game was delineated by the cracking or breaking of a chestnut. It did not matter if yours was on the dangle or the swing, it was the cracking that lost you the game.

Walking to the unemployment office, two large chestnuts I found brought a smile as, like prayer beads, I caressed them. It was early morning. Cold. Gray. Not many people about, when I saw the boy sitting on the steps of Saints Peter and Paul elementary school. He was clutching a book bag half his size and suffering racking sobs. He looked to be about six. No one was around - no students, teachers, priests or nuns. Just this little guy sitting on the school steps, crying. I walked up and asked what was wrong. He looked at me with "Don't Talk To Strangers" terror in his eyes and stammered unintelligible sounds. I sat on a lower step, made eye contact and asked again. He stammered between sobs, "My mommy...there is...no one...my mommy." The school was closed and dark. I asked his name. He replied: Stanley Dombrowski. I said, "Well, Stanley, lets see if we can find out what is going on." I offered him my hand and his sobbing slowed as he took it and we walked towards the Rectory, were the priests live. Passing the front of the school, I noticed a sign that it was closed for repairs before winter break. Mom must have forgotten.

As we approached the Rectory, Stanley's fear of abandonment was superseded by a much more immediate fear shared by most Catholic children at the sight of the Rectory — Priests and Nuns in their secret lair, of which there were many myths and tales, all scary. It was a rare child who had been inside the Rectory. I felt a slight trepidation myself. The long sidewalk to the front door of the Rectory was populated on both sides by barren trees reaching skeletal appendages to the gray sky. Stanley's sobbing turned to a resigned whimpering. This was a deeper level of fear. He could understand his Mom had made a mistake but still loved him. The Rectory however, who knew?

Holding Stanley's hand, I realized there were two chestnuts in my other hand. I took out the largest one and silently, handed it to Stanley. His eyes got big, he even smiled for a moment, took it and put it in his coat pocket with his hand tightly wrapped around it. A talisman, a good luck charm, a weapon. I smiled at him, he smiled back, then whimpered.

The housekeeper grabbed Stanley and slammed the door before I could say anything. I gave her the finger and moved on. I had to get to the Unemployment Office before my time slot was gone and I lost my $22.50. I felt an odd sense of wellbeing. I had helped Stanley. I was a productive member of society. The day brightened a little. The woman behind the Unemployment Office counter gave me crap about one of the jobs on the interview form. Quickly, the day again became bleak, cold, gray, skeletal.

In the first dark, cold, hours of the next morning, the war wouldn't leave me alone. I bolted out of my parents' door and wandered the streets of my childhood until I found myself by a creek and cement levees, a favorite childhood shelter. I curled into a fetal position on the levee as my hand found the other chestnut in my pocket. I thought of Stanley. For the first time since my discharge, in a childhood safe haven from a past impossible to reclaim tears started to flow until I was sobbing - alone.

Gregory Ross was in the Navy, the Gun Line off coast of Vietnam with the 7th Fleet [1968-69]. Graduate of a VA drug, alcohol and PTSD program [1980]; Acupuncturist, Detox specialty [since 1989], laid off [2011], published in "Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace." Feedback: gandgandg@yahoo.com