The Pomegranate Grove

We lived in the San Fernando Valley in Walnut Cove,  a subdivision of ranch-style houses with big front yards. Walnut Cove had a mature tree in front of every house.   The trees were an echo of the grove bulldozed to create the subdivision. At least the planners left enough trees to shade the wide sidewalks. The trees were all grafted between English and White Walnuts. That meant a white trunk, a black body with solid roots, and the best walnuts. They were big branched trees great for climbing.

These piebald nut trees would fill with green speckled pods every spring, then the heat and light of summer would darken and shrivel the pods into a thin black leather. Finally, the pods dried, exposing the wrinkled veined details of a new walnut shell. The ripe walnuts snapped from the husks, and we collected wagons full!

All my neighborhood pals, Dave DeCamp, Judy Corn, and her sister Sharon, David Olsen, and even the evil and weird Reynolds would gather bag fulls of walnuts. We'd crack the shells with our teeth and extract the brain like walnut meat. Occasionally a nut with bitter dark fibers and spider webs made you shiver. But most of the time, we plucked the delicious light brown nuts from the shell almost whole. You could always find a snack in Walnut Cove during the late spring and summer.  

Two big valley streets bordered Walnut Cove. Balboa Blvd and Nordhoff are major commuter roads with fast-moving traffic. Crossing these dangerous streets was forbidden. The valley was quickly filling up with sub-divisions. But Walnut Cove was still surrounded by groves—oranges to the north, acres of pomegranates to the south, and walnuts to the east. West across Balboa was bulldozed into weedless, treeless lots sliced by new black top ribbons of asphalt. The hammering of a new sub-division came next.

We could get into the orange groves without crossing the big streets, which meant their allure was minimal. The oranges were usually small, green, and bitter. Besides, the farmer hated kids and was always on the prowl. The pomegranate groves on the other side of Nordhoff Blvd seemed the most mysterious, remote, and irresistible.

Even though I wasn't supposed to cross the street, I planned a raid on the pomegranates with Judy Corn. Judy lived down the block. She was part of a Jack Mormon clan that seemed to have no trouble playing cards and drinking coffee. I'd go to Judy's house to watch American Bandstand with Dave DeCamp and Judy's older sister Sharon. I was the youngest of the group and always got fidgety waiting for the program to end so we could go out and play. The older kids, especially Sharon and Dave, who must have been at least 13, were fascinated by the dancing couples on the screen. It was boring but neat to be included with the older kids.    

Judy was bored too, but she wouldn't admit that around her big sister.  Judy was a hot-tempered tomboy and one of the toughest kids on the block. I fought her once, and she won. Judy hit me ten times as I struggled to wrestle her arms down. She was hard to hold. Her muscles were as big as mine. I told myself I held back during the fight because she was a girl. You weren't supposed to hit girls. But she punched harder than any boy in the neighborhood except Arty  Guftason, the worst bully on the block. I liked Judy, but I was afraid of her. Her punches really hurt.

Judy wasn't supposed to cross the street either, but she dared me, and I couldn't back down from a dare. Besides, I wanted to get some pomegranates. We waited a long time for a break in the traffic, then sprinted across the street, through the gully over the wire fence, and into the forbidden groves. A faded no-trespassing sign hung on the wire fence made me feel like we were on the verge of getting caught.   There was probably a farmer meaner than the guy at the orange grove just waiting to grab us. 

We went far into the grove between the neat rows of trees, disappearing into the mysteries of this banned place. The traffic noise on Balboa faded. The trees were planted in rows, a tractor-width apart. The leaves created a canopy that cooled the hot valley sun. It was hot enough to soften the asphalt at the edges of the street, but it was shady and secret here. Dust swirled, suspended in shafts of sunlight that cut through the leaves. We were alone. It was better here than either of us had hoped.

The trees clustered in odd-shaped fruit, a pomegranate's skin is a bumpy alien terrain, and pods like pale purple wasps nests hung heavy from the burdened limbs.    The overripe ones had fallen to the ground and lay half-hidden in the tall grass. These were insect-laden universes, purple, blood-colored clusters swarming with ants where the skin had split. The air smelled rich with growing things, backed by a cloying scent of decay. The skin color told you which pomegranates were ready to be eaten. A baseball-sized pomegranate with a pale purple exterior,  firm to the touch, wasn't ready yet. We wanted the dimpled and swollen, almost violet fruit, bigger than your fist; the ones just a bit soft to the touch were ready to burst with scarlet seeds and sweet juice.

We jumped up to steal the fruit, snatching them from the low limbs. But the best ones were out of reach. Pomegranate trees are hard to climb, and none of the branches are low enough. With my hands, I made a step cradle to boost Judy into the tree. She was surprisingly heavy, and it hurt my hands and shoulders as she climbed over me. Out of reach, She laughed and teased me, bombing me with dozens of pomegranates. I chucked back rotten, ground-softened, ant-covered missiles but never hit her.

Eventually, we called a truce. We stacked pomegranates in pyramids like lumpy cannon balls on the fruit-littered battlefield. We lay back in the grass, gorging ourselves, splitting open the sweet fruit, peeling back the tough fibrous skin, devouring the thick scarlet seeds, biting into massive clusters, chewing the pulp, and swallowing the juice. The crimson drippings ran down our chins and stained our t-shirts. We ate only the thickest seed clusters. After a  few mouthfuls and we'd be left with the difficult part of the fruit. We tossed the half-eaten carcasses aside, took a fresh pomegranate from the pile, and began again.

We spent the late afternoon eating, talking, watching the sky through the trees, and reveling in the special secret of the place. It was exciting to spend time with a girl, even if she was a tomboy. It got late quickly. The sky darkened, and the shadows grew. We had to get home. All around us were pomegranates' split, smashed, and broken remains. We ruined more than we ate. When I looked at empty husks and wasted fruit, I felt uneasy. If the farmer caught us now, he'd be right to be mad. Suddenly I felt guilty. We used a fine place poorly. It was a hopeless mess. Turning away, we ran from the grove.

I came slinking into the house. My conscience is hurting. I'd disobeyed, crossed the street, thieved the pomegranates worse, and wasted as much as I'd eaten. My face and hands were stained in juice and guilt. 

Mom's radar was on maximum. It was dusk, too late to get home. She was waiting for me. My furtive slump-shouldered skulk towards my room tipped her off. She took one look at me and knew something was wrong.

"Dennis, what is it?" was all she needed to say. 

"I, uh, I ... crossed the street .... took pomegranates.... stole them, I guess."

My story tumbled out, sneaking away with Judy, the shame of wasting the farmer's pomegranates. I had to confess. It was a relief to own up.

Surprisingly, Mom wasn't upset with me. Instead, she had a smile on her face as she nodded and told me not to cross the street again.

I never returned to the pomegranate grove. I never took another of the farmer's pomegranates, even when Judy brought me an extra. I'd lost my taste for pomegranates, and the ones bought at the store weren't the same.