Pomegranates bring back sticky memories

As part of our holiday festivities this year, we pried open two leathery pomegranates one afternoon, and shared those shimmery jewel-like seeds as we visited.

Pomegranates are a special treat, a fruit that always seems exotic and out of place in eastern New Mexico. I don't remember ever having one in our home when we were growing up.

Instead — and curiously — the occasional pomegranates that I encountered came from a most unlikely place: the old Dora Grocery run by Opal and Helen Jones, a short walk from Dora School.

Fridays were designated as “store day” back then. Kids who brought a coin or two (mostly nickels and dimes) were invited to invade the Jones' grocery store for a few minutes in the afternoon to spend our riches.

Now and again as Christmas drew near, the bins that regularly contained apples and oranges also housed — oh, joy of joys — pomegranates.

The two pomegranates we had this week in my kitchen were opened under reasonably sanitary conditions, following online instructions that aimed to minimize mess and maximize the harvest of whole seeds.

By contrast, when one of our elementary classmates sprang for a pomegranate, what followed was a frenzied group activity carried out by grubby fingers on the playground behind the school.

We tore into those pomegranates like a pack of wolf cubs, ripping off segments, and darting away to pinch off and savor the sweet scarlet seeds, one by one.

As an adult with a baseline standard of cleanliness (one that is likely considerably lower than most folks have, but still), I cringe thinking how grungy we got on that playground even on regular days.

On those treasured pomegranate days, the ultra-pulverized dust became a perfect medium to absorb the sticky, staining juice, which we spread on the swings, the teeter-totters, the slides, and each other with the lavish generosity in which small children excel.

Yet, what makes this story most meaningful to me with more than a half-century of perspective is that I have no memory of our teachers ever once chiding us about the messy seasonal chaos of pomegranates.

During playground time, our teachers stood in a patient row near the back porch of the school, chatting among themselves, ever ready to mediate squabbles and wipe noses.

Clearly, they were not oblivious to the syrupy, dust-crusted fingers we all carried back to our classrooms when play period came to an end.

But equally clear to me now was that our wise and kind teachers knew how much joy was encapsulated in each tough-skinned pomegranate. They realized that tacky pencils and fruit-stained faces were a price worth paying.

I have no idea where or how Opal and Helen Jones tracked down pomegranates to sell back then, but it must have been someplace exceptional, because all these years later I can still say I've never tasted any sweeter than the ones that came from there.

Or perhaps pomegranates need to be eaten with bare hands on a playground under the watchful eyes of teachers who love us, sticky fingers and all.

Betty Williamson also had a passion for Ding Dongs, but that is a story for another day. Reach her at:

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