No hobbies are more therapeutic than gardening; in
August, none are hotter.
Recently, a friend of mine, admiring my butter beans, said, "Goodness gracious …
I've never seen butter beans make like that. You must have done something
differently this year."
"No," I replied. "As a lifelong gardener, I still can't predict with any degree
of certainty how a garden will turn out."
My non-gardening friend mused, "I would have thought, with proper fertilizing,
watering, and weeding, gardens would perform consistently, year to year."
Not wanting to expose her naiveté, I said, "Maybe, for some gardeners; for me,
each year is different. Long ago, I quit speculating on how much weather
contributes, how much gardeners contribute, and to what degree the Maker of
weather and gardeners chooses to be involved. Last year, my tomatoes were the
best performers; this year, the tomatoes didn't do so well, but, as you can see,
the butter beans stole the show. At any rate, how about helping me pick a mess?"
Heading for her air-conditioned car, she declined, complaining that she never
did much of anything outdoors during the August dog days. "At least you can help
me shell them," I said. "No way … shelling butter beans is hard work, and
besides it messes up my nails. I'll help you eat them, though."
No way, I thought. If I pick and shell them by myself, I'll cook and eat them by
myself.
Mama was the same way. When you slid your knees under her table, bowed your head
to give thanks, and prepared to chow down on fresh butter beans, corn bread, and
sweet milk, the cooking part was the only part you didn't have a hand in. If you
weren't in on the picking and shelling, you wouldn't be in on the eating.
On hot August days, Mama and I picked many a mess of butter beans. Bent to her
task, hands moving swiftly, her face beamed with a jaunty grace through her old
straw hat's torn brim. Her passion was gardening; she passed that passion on to
me.
I especially loved shelling the butter beans - just the two of us, under the
mulberry trees, tossing worm-damaged pods to the chickens wandering close by,
hoping for a snack.
Ever so often, she'd set her work aside, take a cool drink of sweet tea, and
cast a critical eye at her garden. Then she'd discuss what she planned to do
differently next year, not only to improve yields, but also to make the garden
more attractive … a beautiful botanical blessing created by God, with the help
of one of His children.
Clergyman and poet Robert Collyer must have had avid gardeners like Mama in mind
when he wrote:
Go make thy garden as fair as thou canst, Thou workest never alone; And he whose
plot is next to thine May see it and mend his own.
How blessed I was to share those precious hours with my mother … just shelling
beans.
Jimmy Reed jcreedjr@bellsouth.net
is a newspaper columnist and college teacher in Oxford, Mississippi.
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