1/5/2007: Nuts About a Grandson!






My dad, Al Vernon Foxworth, was from west Florida, the little panhandle berg of Bagdad near Milton, 30 miles east of Pensacola, where my grandfather was a peanut farmer well before former President Jimmy Carter made that occupation fashionable.

Although I lost my paternal grandfather before I was the age of five, vague thoughts of an event with peanuts come to mind; not entirely sure if it is because I remember the experience, or I remember being told this story:
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Seems that Grandfather Foxworth kept his harvested peanuts in the shell: stored in burlap bags in his barn before taking them to market. When visiting them once, I was caught fetching peanuts from the barn and bringing them to the house for grandpa to shell.

Meanwhile, the whole household was laughing at my folly because I would bring only one peanut at a time while dashing to and from the barn despite the 50-yard trek from the house. While all the adults must have wanted me to somehow figure a way to transport more than one peanut at a time, I am not sure I ever caught on. Nor did I probably care. The fun was in the run and the experience with a grandfather who thought his grandson could do no wrong.

Now that I am having that "grandpa" experience with my first grandson, John Michael, I better understand the moment and why grandfathers just let life happen.


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