As I pull the tender plants from ground, I can see long, slender green beans waving back and forth, signaling their readiness for harvest.
The Ump is umping today. Some kind of special softball tournament in Harrisonburg. It is a beautiful day. Spring must be jealous that Summer has a day like this one up her sleeve. No humidity. Just plenty of sunshine and enough of a breeze to keep the gnats guessing.
I take my colander full of beans to the picnic table to snap them.
Peanut, Brownie and Major have all assumed positions around me that afford the most shade. I sit in full sunlight, but with my back to the sun so I can see what I am doing.
Snapping beans is a wonderful Southern tradition. And while today is a solitary snapfest, beans were a wonderful part of the ritual of preparing the family meal when I was a kid.
I watch my fingers work the beans and memory kicks in and I see my grandmother’s hands. She had knuckles swollen by arthritis, but her fingernails were always nicely shaped and usually painted with a clear or pale pink polish.
I can hear her laughing. Her laugh was light, airy, though her voice was more of a contralto.
Summer Sunday lunches at Grandmother’s house were a great tradition. Our favorite meal was pot roast cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions. We always had hot rolls and a relish tray with thick, sweet tomatoes and raw onions because the adults all liked raw onions on top of their green beans.
We usually had apple sauce and jelly; both poured into delicate glass bowls and placed on the dining room table wherever there was a spot. There was an established plate, bowl and serving fork or spoon for every item. With the entire family present, the little dining room at her house (which also sported a corner cabinet, china cupboard and a secretary’s desk) was filled.
There was no air-conditioning at her house. At least not when we were young. But the dining room window was open and she always had the screen door open in the kitchen to let out the heat from the stove.
I can see Grandmom standing in the kitchen doorway, an apron protecting her Sunday clothes – she was always the last to be seated. When Grandmom sat down, Dad would say the blessing and the ceremony of passing the food around would begin.
I’ve got the beans on the stove now and I slipped a little streaked meat in though I know I shouldn’t. But I have to. And it smells like Grandmom’s house in Parklin Heights.
It was 10 years ago today that Grandmom died. I watched her struggle for her last breaths. Mom, Aunt Ruthie, Aunt Jean and I were standing around her hospital bed. I remember thinking how odd it was that she was here this minute and gone the next. 9:01 p.m. I think. At 9 she was alive and at 9:01 she wasn’t.
She never met the Ump. I know she would have loved him. In my mind, I can see her patting his arm and with a twinkle in her eye asking him about working on the farm with Marty.
And she never saw Gracilyn who is her only great-grandchild. She would have been amazed by that little girl, but I think she would have been even more pleased by the wonderful father that my brother has become.
I just opened the bean pot to make sure the water wasn’t boiling off and steam quickly clouded my glasses. How many times did I see Grandmom wipe steam from her glasses?
I wiped away the steam, but my face is still wet. Tears. Not those strong, sobbing longing tears anymore. They are bittersweet tears. Tender tears full of memories that spill from my eyes and race to my heart.
Grandmom’s picture is in my kitchen on shelf right beside the sink. It’s a great picture of her. She’s smiling and she’s wearing one of her sweaters around her shoulders and there’s a brooch at the neck of her blouse.
She was a classy lady. Very smart – the queen of crosswords. I used to call her when I got stuck on a difficult word, especially if it was arcane.
I decided to put some new potatoes in with the beans since the Ump hasn’t gotten home yet. He likes that.
Nodding to Grandmom, I tell her the potatoes are going in the pot too.
I wash my hands and pick up the picture and wipe the dust out of the edges of the frame.
So much has happened in 10 years. But so much more happened in the 35 she was with me or I was with her.
Some of the memories are cloudy, but she is here. When I work a crossword puzzle or watch the little blue birds playing house in the bushes. Or when I snap beans.
