Magic Buckeyes

By Paul M. Madison • Illustrated by Gary Undercuffler

I’m walking home from third grade with Timmy and the Donnelly brothers today because we have plans. The autumn sun is already low, and the wind blows through the shadows of Mrs. Johnson’s horse-chestnut trees.

All four of us go to her door, but only Timmy, who is in sixth grade, rings the bell. The house stays dark, and we edge toward the back of the steps just a little. “Who wants ol’ horse chestnuts anyway?” I whisper to Pat Donnelly. But the Donnelly brothers have done this before, and they both motion for me to be quiet.

The door swings open. Mrs. Johnson, framed by the darkness of the room behind her and the ring of her own gray hair, beams at us through her rimless glasses. “Come for your buckeyes, eh?” The older boys nod, and I do, too. “Do you have bags?”

Timmy and James and Pat look at each other, and Mrs. Johnson scurries off into the darkness, calling, “Stay right there—I’ll get you some bags for your buckeyes.” She’s back before I can run away. “You put your buckeyes in this sack.” She says it four times as she passes out the bags.

Into the grove we go. The grass is thick and shaggy under the trees, but it doesn’t hide the buckeyes. We see buckeyes wherever we look, and if we stop looking we find them under our feet with each step we take.

We scatter in every direction, scooping up buckeyes by the handful, dropping them into our paper bags. At first the nuts rattle and bounce as they hit the bottom of the sack. But the paper bag gradually becomes heavy, and then each buckeye makes a quiet thunk against the growing mound inside the sack. This is the sound of wealth to a buckeye collector.

Fewer and fewer nuts are added now because I need two hands to hold my bag. It is dark when we finally head toward home, as happy as if we were toting sackfuls of Halloween loot.

My bag is heavy, and I have trouble keeping up. As we reach home, Timmy has already said so long to the Donnelly brothers. I shout good-bye to Timmy before he closes his own front door. Then I run to my house, awkwardly holding the bag with both hands. I’m inside pushing the door closed with the seat of my jeans before I realize that I forgot to ask Timmy what I should do next with the buckeyes.

I hear my father talking on the telephone in his all-business voice. I tiptoe around him into the kitchen, where I find my mother and little sister. Lizzy is crying as my mother tries to explain to her, “Not now, honey. I have to finish making supper first.” My mother steps around her to get to the sink. She has to pour the steaming noodles into the drainer to cool. Lizzy is too small to understand that she should go to her room and leave Mom alone for a while.

I run to my own room and dump the buckeyes on the sheets of my unmade bed. The nuts flow out of the sack in a beautiful brown cascade. I let my fingers slide and glide through them, feeling their smoothness.

I look for buckeyes to set aside on my pillow, buckeyes perfect and round and dark brown. Polished already, they shine even brighter when I rub them with the corner of my sheet, and I discover that touching buckeyes is even better than looking at them. I feel their cool, smooth roundness and know why Timmy and Pat and James gather buckeyes. That is even before I discover that buckeyes are magic.

“It’s time for supper,” my mother announces as she pokes her head into my bedroom. She’s holding my little sister on her hip. I see her eyeing my unmade bed and the buckeyes fresh from the ground scattered all over my sheets. I lower my own eyes and start to scoop the nuts together, wishing I had made my bed this morning like I was supposed to.

I’m surprised when my mother doesn’t say anything about my jumbled sheets and blankets. She reaches right into the pile of dark brown nuts instead. “Found yourself some buckeyes, eh?” she says. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

I hold up a perfect one for her. She takes it and wraps her fingers around it several times before giving it back. “You’ll have to save that one. Buckeyes bring good luck.”

I stare as my mother leaves my messy room with its bed full of nuts, and I know she is right. Buckeyes do bring good luck.

At the supper table I show my father one of my prize buckeyes, and he surprises me by telling us stories of when he was a boy collecting buckeyes. I give him mine, telling him that I have more just as good right in my room. He says he’ll carry it in his pocket when he goes to work tomorrow! I laugh and am happy that I have found the good-luck buckeyes.

After supper I take my little sister to my room. I put her on my bed and let her play in the pile of buckeyes because I know she cannot break them. Lizzy is laughing, and she smiles even more when I give her one of her own. I give her another one, and she scoots off my bed with each hand wrapped around a smooth buckeye.

She’s off in a flash, and I hear more giggles and laughter as she throws herself into my mother’s lap. Now it seems as if our whole house is filled with buckeyes.

That night when I go to bed I feel buckeyes under my legs and a few under my stomach, too. I’ll put them in the bag with the others tomorrow.

I keep one wrapped in my hand as I fall asleep, and I hear flutes and violins and happy tapping drums when I close my eyes. I remember the magic sounds of the buckeyes bouncing and tapping in the paper sack as I collected them, and now I think that maybe the music in my head is coming right from those same buckeyes.

And even though it is hard to sleep with tapping drums and whistling flutes right in bed with you, I won’t let go of my buckeye. I know now that surprises come often to boys wealthy with buckeyes, and I can’t wait until tomorrow.