Green Beans

My sister was taking a trip out to California, and invited me to harvest and eat any green beans that matured in her back yard garden while she was away. After my corn incident, I wasn't sure of the wisdom of such a thing, but I had tolerated green beans before, so I stopped on my way home from work and picked down a row of beans.

How I had forgotten the prickly feel of the wide leaves as you brushed them aside to scope out the dangling fruit. The beans are the exact green of the bush and hard to see unless you know how to manage the foliage, brushing it to the left, then to the right, lifting the leafage until the stems reveal the dangling pods.

Though I have aged considerably since last time I went picking, I found it easy to bend over the row pursuing the delectable little containers of vitamin A. For the briefest of moments, I thought of the huge backyard garden we had in Fort Covington and of how often I had helped pull weeds and pick vegetables alongside my brothers and sisters. I clearly remember my Mom hoeing the hills of corn while I was weeding the beet row. I could almost see the blue gingham skirt Mom wore, almost see my sister's long red braids brushing the ground as she bent to the task, almost glimpse my younger brother crawling between the rows digging for earthworms.

I giggled as I remembered the time my brother had singed his eyebrows off burning trash in the rusty barrel out back. I could almost hear the shouts of "allee-allee-in-free" as the neighborhood kids played hide and seek. For the briefest moment, I thought I smelled the peonies growing in the side yard, their deep pink and heady perfume the perfect attraction for a billion ants.

How odd. I never thought the string bean a memory aid!