Babel - Desiree Ascevich

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 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

me sitting at the high table. “Ansley, what are you doing” he questions. “I was worried sick about you!” he exclaims!

I gush, “waiting on you! I’m ready for boileds and bourbon, Daddy!” Before I know it, he is bent over laughing. A proud smile takes over his face. At the young age of three, I had already mastered the family tradition of boiled peanuts and bourbon.

My dad then runs upstairs to get my mom (and, the bourbon), and they follow the droplet trail through the kitchen, down the stairs, to our boiled peanut table. We laugh together while we nibble on our traditional snack. My mom and dad pairing it with bourbon, while I drown it in a coca-cola. As I wipe a peanut’s juice off my chin and throw its shell into the bucket, it bounces off the side and tumbles to the ground. My dog, Buddy, scuttles over to the shell as my dad jumps out of his chair to wrestle it out of her pointed canines. He then explains the importance of picking up my fallen peanut shells - as they can be dangerous to dogs.

Fast-forward five years, to a boiled peanut table full of people, a rival football game, and a race to the fallen peanut shell. It’s the third quarter in a nail-biting football game - The Georgia Bulldogs VS. Georgia Tech Yellowjackets. My family is dressed in red, in support of the Dawgs, while our family friends, the Rountrees, sit across the table from us are wearing gold, cheering for the Jackets. The cocky smiles my parents and I were wearing fade as Josh Nesbitt, Tech’s quarterback, scores a two point conversion, tying up the game. Before I know it my friend,

Mattie, is taunting me, claiming the Yellow Jackets are going to win. So, as any eight year old would do, I bet her my candy stash in favor of the Dawgs. We then gulp down our cokes and shake on the bet.

As a Bud Light commercial comes on, Mattie and I jump out of our chairs to refill our coca-colas. My dog, Bandit, lets out a yelp, so I pat his head in apology for landing on his leg.

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The newest member of the McCoy Family, Claire Dog, crawls over for some loving, and Mattie and I entertain ourselves by playing with my two dogs. Before we know it, Scott Howard’s booming voice is back and the fourth quarter begins.

Tech scores a touchdown. Mattie smiles. I drown my sorrow in boiled peanuts. Tech scores again. Mattie triumphantly sips her refilled coke. I frown remembering the bet. The score is now 38-28, and Georgia is going to have to put in some serious work, especially if I want to keep Mattie’s dirty hands off of my butterfingers! As if they read my mind, the Dawgs score. Now it’s 38-35. I smile. Mattie nervously gnaws on a boiled peanut. Georgia Tech then scores again, and I’m starting to lose hope as the score is now 45-35. Georgia will need a touchdown, a two point conversion, and a field goal to win the game. Of course, Mattie smiles.

With four minutes left in the game A.J. Green scores a touchdown for the Dawgs, meaning we only need 3 points to tie it up! The ball moves up and down the field, with Georgia trying to push towards Tech’s endzone, and Tech trying to push them back. With 30 seconds left, the stress of the game (and losing my candy stash) gets to me, so I start devouring boiled peanuts. I throw my shell into the bucket, and as I wipe the juice off my chin, my peanut’s shell goes crashing towards the floor, right at Bandit’s feet. I spring out of my chair to retrieve it, and when I look up Mattie is jumping up and down. Tech intercepted the ball. Georgia lost. The game is over.

Ten years later, my parents sit to the left of me, our family friends, the Kings, sit to my right, and my two dogs, Claire and Asi, sit underneath me at our boiled peanut table. Georgia is playing Alabama today, and with a table full of Dawgs fans the night will either end in celebration or in sorrow. The day before, I had flown home from Stetson University in Florida to spend my birthday weekend with my family. My only wish for my nineteenth birthday was for the Dawgs to kick Big Al on his ass! While I wasn’t betting my candy stash this year, this game still meant a lot to me. Afterall, it would be Georgia’s first National Championship in my lifetime.

As the game begins, we all snack on our boiled peanuts. My childhood friend, Bristol, and I giddelidy smile at each other, as this is the first year we are allowed to wash our peanuts down with bourbon...finally! The game starts quickly with Georgia scoring a touchdown in the first three minutes. The whole table cheers as the Dawgs take the lead. Before I know it, Alabama has tied the game back up. We boo, and drink our bourbon. Georgia scores two more touchdowns in the first half. At halftime, the score is 21-7 and it looks like my birthday wish is going to come true!

During the break, Bristol and I saunteer inside to play a game of pool. Our dads join in and like the football game, the dad’s team starts off strong. Bristol and I push back until Mr. Chuck - Bristol’s Dad - sinks four balls back to back, completely annihilating us. Bristol and I

drown our loss in a glass of bourbon, and then we return to the boiled peanut table. When we sit down, I notice the pink blush in Bristol’s cheeks, which helps me remind myself to be mindful of how much bourbon I drink.

Scott Howard’s booming voice silences the conversation on the terrace, and we all return our attention to the screen. Alabama is the first to score in the second half, but Georgia quickly counters with a touchdown. My family cheers and the Kings smile. When Alabama scores again and again, Bristol - a UGA student- downs her drink. I eat a handful of boiled peanuts. We’re now in the fourth quarter of the game, and this year I’m mindful about ensuring that my peanut shells make it into the bucket. Afterall, I don’t want a repeat of the race to the fallen peanut shell of ‘08! With one minute left in the game, Alabama scores another touchdown. Georgia goes from having a 14 point lead in the first half to trailing by seven in the last minute of the game. As we watch the seconds tick down, we munch on boiled peanuts praying for a miracle. I guess it wasn’t fate for the Dawgs to win that night.

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Unfortunately my fate for the remainder of the evening, was to take care of a drunk Bristol while hiding the fact that she was drunk from her parents. Needless to say, boiled peanuts are not always fun with bourbon.

It’s one year later, and we’re back to December of 2019. I pick up the fallen peanut shell before my dog, Claire, gets her beady eyes on it. I rejoin my parents at the boiled peanut table, and we watch Kirby Smart bring the Dawgs to yet another loss against LSU. A chill runs through me, so I pull my jacket to my chest and sip on my bourbon to warm me up from the cool December air. If I’d known this would be my last time sitting at our boiled peanut table with my mother to my left, my father to my right, and my two dogs, Claire and Asi, sitting underneath me, I might have taken a mental picture. I would have absorbed the memory the same way my body was absorbing the cool December air. That’s the funny thing about memories, though. We never know when they are going to come and go.

The beeping begins before the moving truck comes into view. As my mom points to boxes, my dad and I carry them from the home I grew up in to the truck that will take them to our new house. We get in our cars and follow the truck up I575 to our mountain house nestled in the sky. As the movers unload our precious belongings, they pull out our boiled peanut table which has been smashed by the hilly, winding drive. Seeing the decimated table brings tears to my eyes.

This year boiled peanuts will be different for sure. We will find a new table to continue the McCoy Family Tradition. This year my mom will sit to my left, my dad will sit to my right, and my one dog, Asi, will sit beneath my feet. While places, people, and pets change, traditions can live on forever, even if they don’t completely remain the same. This year, when I go to wipe the peanut’s juice off of my chin, its shell will most likely bounce off of the bucket and hit the wooden floor. I’ll hop out of my chair and repeat a race to the fallen peanut shell, yet again.