No hobbies are more therapeutic than gardening; in summer, none are hotter.
One hot August day, a friend, 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, saying she didn’t do much of anything outdoors during the dog days of summer.
“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 tea, 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 a shade tree, tossing worm-damaged pods to her chickens wandering close by, hoping for a snack.
Ever so often, she’d set her work aside, take a sip 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 is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
