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Horse Chestnut Tree

When I was growing up, our family went to visit Grampa Anderson every Sunday afternoon.  He lived alone in a fusty old house on the other side of town and didn’t have much to entertain young children—so my brother and I played outdoors.

There was a horse chestnut tree in Grampa’s backyard and in the fall we could find dozens of chestnuts buried in the grass.  Bob and I collected them like treasures—so smooth and glossy, shining red and gold and brown.

But when we brought them indoors, our father said, “They’re not good for anything.”  It seemed to me that being beautiful was good enough.

I hoped I might grow up and have such a tree in my yard.  Instead, I have a horse chestnut tree in my neighborhood.  It leans out over the street and in the fall sometimes I find a chestnut that the squirrels have missed.

They are still beautiful—smooth and glossy, shining red and gold and brown.  But if I bring them indoors, they shrivel up and lose their colors.  So I hold the chestnut for a few minutes, remembering Grampa Anderson, and then I put it back.