Chestnut Time at the Armory

One of my favorite memories growing up in Buffalo was the annual trip my brothers and I would take each fall to collect chestnuts at the Connecticut Street Armory. At least, we thought they were chestnuts.

We lived quite a ways from the armory. We relied on reconnaissance done by schoolmates who lived closer and would watch for the telltale signs. As soon as we got the signal, we would rush home from school, jump on our bikes, and head up to Niagara Street and the park across from the armory. We could smell piles of leaves burning in backyards (yes, people did that back then) as we whipped around the corners, giddy with excitement, my youngest brother hanging onto my back for dear life, bumping along, seated on the back fender of my bike.

Then we would spot them—the enormous trees with the long oval leaves, and the warty, lime green golf balls that had hidden brown treasure inside. If we timed it just right, they would be lying all over the ground, the green casing already turning brown, cracking open so we wouldn’t have to work too hard to get at the nut.

One of our favorite games was a version of “conkers,” a traditional British game whereby you pound a nail through the center of a very sturdy chestnut and put a string through the hole. Then you take turns aiming your chestnut at your opponent’s, hitting them until one breaks apart. I personally liked the more genteel practice of threading the chestnuts into a very large (and heavy) necklace and wearing it around my neck. Either pursuit meant waiting until we got home for the fun to begin, which no one wanted to do.

Instead, my brothers would immediately organize a game of “army” (inspired by the looming building across the street), gather up the chestnuts, hide behind trees, and throw them at each other like hand grenades. Obviously, whoever collected the most—and the heftiest—chestnuts was the one who outlasted the others and won the game. Before we knew it, we’d catch the golden glow of the sun setting through the oval leaves, scurry to fill our bags, and peddle like mad to be home before dark.

We heard they sold roasted chestnuts in New York City, and every year we talked about trying that. Thank goodness, we never figured out how to roast them. Now that I am a Master Gardener, I’ve learned what we thought were chestnuts were not chestnuts at all, but horse chestnuts, also called buckeyes. They are not members of the chestnut family, and in fact, are slightly poisonous to humans! There is an edible Chinese chestnut tree in my neighborhood now (the photo above is the edible kind) and it’s easy to tell the difference. These porcupine-like balls are almost impossible to pick up, and you know they’re edible because the squirrels get to them before they hit the ground.

I’ve been thinking about all the times we innocently “endangered” ourselves in the name of having fun—throwing horse chestnuts at each other (they hurt), riding two-on-a-bike through busy streets without helmets, making plans to eat things that would have made us sick. We did some version of these things every day and somehow managed to survive. Our children are safer now, but I wonder if they’ve lost something too. Like the joy of unbridled imagination, and the rewards that sometimes come with taking risks.

What do you think?