Shelling lima beans takes me back to a quiet and gentle childhood memory...
Every summer, my brother and I spent a week or two with my grandparents who lived on several acres outside Pittsburgh. Grandma and Grandpa Herman both came from farm families, and so they grew gardens--big, expansive flower and vegetable gardens. My summer memories at their home are filled with mornings of running around the property exploring or afternoons of "going calling" where I carried a basket of flowers and Grandma carried a basket of vegetables, sharing both beauty and bounty with friends. Grandma froze cherries, pears, and applesauce from the fruit trees lining the perimeter of their land. Grandpa disappeared in his garden to pick fresh vegetables or dig potatoes for our dinner each night. They were living locally and off-the- land, even before that way of life was so named.
One summer evening, Grandma traveled off to a meeting, probably at church or her garden club. She left Grandpa, Dick, and me with a a huge pile of lima beans to shell so she could bag and freeze them the next morning. I remember the three of us, seated on an old bench and battered chairs, circled around our task--shelling, talking, laughing, shelling, and shelling and shelling. When Grandma returned home, it was dark, and though we had finished, we were still sitting and talking, the porch light shining into the shadows. I remember the shelling and Grandpa and the astonishment that we could have shelled our way through that mountain of pods. I wonder what Grandpa remembered? But perhaps I know; my sweet Alexander has taught me that.
