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Tommy Toes, Shelled Peas, and Warm Alabama Soil



My paternal grandfather farmed--as did his father, and his father, and his father before him. Until his early retirement, Granddad also worked for Reynold’s Aluminum Factory near Florence, Alabama. I only knew him after his retirement when he kept three gardens: a flower garden and two vegetable gardens. 

Living beside my grandparents until I was almost seven years old, I walked along a short dirt path connecting my parent’s property to my grandparent’s, gazing up at the sunflowers towering over seven feet high along the path. “Tommy toe” tomato plants provided a quick snack along the way and there was only a hint of dirt clinging to their skin as I popped them into my mouth, still warm from the sun. 

The middle garden hosted peppers, beans, cabbages, watermelon, cantaloupe, and peas. Cool summer mornings called for shelling peas and snapping green beans. When the corn ripened, husking was the order of the day. Armed with a small brush, I felt useful and equal to my grandparents, who trusted me enough to let me shuck the leaves from the corn and brush the silky strands away. Not a single strand of corn silk was allowed to remain or the cob must be brushed again. Green beans were the same. String them properly and snap them into even parts. A clean metal bowl in our laps caught the snapped beans. Shelled peas stained my fingers purple and left the smell of lightning bugs on them. 

Cayenne pepper plants, when full, were rooted up and hung upside down in the barn to dry, later seasoning the “hot stuff” relish and chicken stew made in large batches. Excess crops were frozen, canned, or given to friends and neighbors. Nothing went to waste. 
    
My grandparents were born just before the Great Depression to poor farmers. They knew lack…and knew how to prepare for hard times, never forgetting to be generous to those around them. This principle they held high until their deaths in the early 2000s. Both of my grandparents were in their mid-eighties when they died. 

Riding on the back of Granddad’s tractor, I clung to the bar behind his seat, closing my eyes, the summer breeze blowing long, unruly hair. This was freedom and the freshly plowed field was my playground. Weightless when I stepped down, my body hummed from the vibrational residue of the tractor. My toes squished warm, rich Alabama earth and I relished the feeling while dreading the cold water from the water hose. Grandmother never allowed dirty feet on her clean floor. Feet must be thoroughly rinsed before coming inside. If it were up to her, she would have made my brother and I stay outdoors until sundown. Children belonged outside in warm weather. 

A decade has almost passed since both my grandparents passed away, and the thought of never seeing them again in this life still hurts. I dream of them frequently and that provides a little comfort. While I'm not sure of the context of the quote, I often think of it: "You can never go home again". And while I wish it were not so, I believe this is true. I can physically visit my grandparent's old home (now owned by my younger second cousin), but without them there, it will never be the place it once was--only in my dreams and that will have to be enough. 

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