RACE TO THE FALLEN PEANUT SHELL ANSLEY MCCOY
It’s December of 2019. I take the boiled peanut shell out of my mouth and toss it into the bucket sitting in the middle of the table. As I wipe the peanut’s juice off of my chin, half of its shell hits the edge of the bucket and bounces off onto the brick floor. I jump out of my chair and race to pick it up before my dog, Claire, can get her beady eyes on it. The simple act of racing my dog to boiled peanut shells is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. It’s crazy how the things that seem constant in our lives, are the things that change and disappear so quickly. Let’s rewind sixteen years to when I’m three. I wrap my little hands around the ice bucket as I pull it down from its nook in the cabinet. I’m careful as I step off the chair onto the hardwood floors lining our kitchen. I paddle over to our ice maker and begin to scoop ice into the bucket. I leave little droplets of melting ice on the hardwood as I go, too
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excited to take the time to clean them up even though my dad will be pissed about the water stains later. It’s September in the McCoy Family Household, meaning it’s time for our autumn tradition of boiled peanuts, bourbon, and college football! I grab cups from the cupboard and bowls from the drawer, and carry them around the side of my house - careful not to drop them as I travel down the steps to our covered terrace. I set three place settings, one each for my mom, my dad, and myself. I place the ice filled bucket on the counter by the table, and then use my little legs to push myself up onto the tall chair. My two dogs, Buddy and Bandit, sit underneath me as I patiently wait for my parents. I sit for 15, 20, 30 minutes and my parents are still not downstairs. I’m beginning to wonder where they are, when I hear my dad frantically calling my name. He sprints down the steps and pauses when he sees
