I do not know how to eat peanuts in the shell without making a mess.

May is a time when I think about Mom a lot, as May 1 is her birthday and Mother's Day follows hard upon it. She's never far from my thoughts in any case, but in May she feels especially close, and I keep seeing things that remind me of her.

The other day I walked into Hannaford and saw a big display of bags of jumbo peanuts in the shell. Mom loved peanuts in the shell, and used to keep a stash in her nightstand (which, as small children, my twin sister and I would often help ourselves to, something I still feel guilty about).

So, thinking of Mom, I bought a bag of peanuts, and they're just as good as they were when I was a kid -- except they make a ridiculous, unbelievable, Godawful mess. I'm used to seeing this at ballparks and in crummy bars; I'm not used to seeing it in my living room, and am about to pull out the vacuum cleaner. (Sorry, Dizzy -- he hates the vacuum.)

Mom used to eat peanuts in bed, and I don't remember seeing peanut litter around her bed or nightstand. How did she manage this, particularly in the days before Dustbusters?

It's one of so many things I wish I could ask her, and one of so many ways I still think of her as magic.