In our side yard grows a magnificent persimmon tree.

Now, I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and right at this time, I doubt if many beholders would agree that the tree is indeed magnificent.

What it is is a mess.

For 22 years I have been intimately acquainted with that tree. It has a graceful shape, produces lush shade in the summer, shelters many birds and just generally adds a pleasant dimension to our country landscape. I have never known it to be more fruitful than this year. We have a bumper crop of persimmons.

The little green sour orbs (objects of so many “don’t you want to taste a persimmon?” pranks) have ripened plump and sweet and purple and pink and they are falling with a splat onto the ground.

The yellow jackets love them. Our horse used to love them, though they gave him the belly ache and we knew not to allow him access. One night we came home to find five deer right beside the house, munching happily.

I would be happy if the deer came every day to eat what dropped on the ground, but our dogs object to fraternizing with them and keep them out of the yard, for the most part.

Some people like them, but I can’t seem to find anyone who likes them enough to come get persimmons from my yard.

So I am left with a rotting mess of persimmons piling on top of persimmons, a veritable mine field of squishy, slimy globules with angry insects objecting to my intrusion as I traipse from the house to the car and back. I just leave my shoes at the door now. Every pair has persimmon guts on the sole.

Now lest you think I am wasteful, you should know that I have a recipe for persimmon bread. Personally, I can’t get past the texture of the fruit to eat it like Mamaw did, but smashed and strained, the pulp is a very flavorful ingredient in quick bread.

So I enlist Rupert to pick up un-splattered persimmons off the ground. He processes them with a hand-grinder, gets rid of the seeds, and refines the fruit to a nice puree. Two cups of pulp will make three loaves. We’ve gone through one making already this fall.

Unfortunately, so many would-be loaves have gone by the wayside during this busy football season. Who has time to bake persimmon bread when the Tigers, Rebels and Bulldogs are all having such an awesome year?

Awaiting the next bye weekend are four cups of frozen persimmon pulp.

Meanwhile, my friend Cassandra, who works at the beauty shop where they know a thing or two, came in with a cut-open persimmon seed and a tale to tell.

Her co-worker, Miss Ann, had brought in a handful of persimmons for an investigation. It seems that persimmon seeds are valued in some circles for their ability to predict the harshness of the coming winter. Miss Ann had Cassandra slice open the seeds and inspect the interior. There are three possible results. If the inside of the seed contains a tiny white shape resembling a spoon, then you’ll need a scoop to remove all the snow this winter. If the seed shows a knife, the indication is that the cold wind will cut you. If there’s a fork inside the persimmon seed…well, I forgot what Cassandra said about the fork.

Anyway, look at the picture of Cassandra’s hand and note the shape of the image inside the seeds.

Right now, I wouldn’t mind if it snowed a foot. At least it would cover up all those rotting persimmons in my yard.