Shelling, Shucking, and Snapping

One of my most pleasant childhood memories would begin with the rough scraping sound of a wooden bushel basket sliding up on the front porch. Growing up, work was a natural part of life on a farm, some of the work was always more welcome than others. Mowing the yard was a hot solitary job and hauling hay was a hot group job, but one that did not allow much time for fraternizing. The work the garden brought though held the promise of family laughs, stories, and songs.

Our family farm was located down in a valley where we raised a herd of Beefmaster cattle in the fields surrounding our house and where Mom and Dad every year grew a substantial garden to provide food for our family of seven. Thanks to mom’s canning and her deep freezer we would enjoy the bounty of our summer harvest all year long at the supper table. The work that came from our diverse two acre garden held many great memories from childhood and came in two different ways.

One area of the work was out in the field and furrows of the garden itself. The fun here came in pulling up the mounded rows of potatoes and finding all the starchy gems that had lay hidden until you unearthed them, or plucking the squishy invading hornworms that were attempting to ravage the tomato plants, dropping them in a bucket to be disposed of. The work here was enjoyable, but often was done in a solo manner, with work assignments doled out by dad sending each boy with his own task to complete.

The other job from the garden, and the one that held many pleasant childhood memories, took place on the front porch and was more of a family job. The porch was covered and its solitary feature was a red-slat wood swing. I enjoyed this aspect of gardening the most because it brought everyone together. Mom, my three older brothers, myself, and eventually my younger sister when she became old enough, would gather up on that wood plank front porch in the evening shade to take care of the deliveries dad brought in with the bushel baskets from the garden.

Dad would drop the first basket off and the collective work would begin. Mom, joined by Dad after he finished delivering the last basket of the day, would work from the swing directing the progress of our shelling green and purple-hull peas, shucking corn, and snapping green beans. My brothers and I would be spread across the porch carrying out our tasks. My favorite place was sitting close to my mom with my legs dangling off the porch.

This became a favorite memory because it brought the entire family together in the same place. The atmosphere on that front porch was one of togetherness. Like the cowboys of the old west gathered around the campfire on a cattle drive, stories were a commodity and everyone would partake in telling and listening. Stories in which we laughed with each other and at each other. Simple stories became legends in the retellings that happened on that porch, fish grew six inches, snakes grew six feet, and the distance of that jump over the creek grew 16 feet. Sometimes those stories of deeds done would draw a laugh out of Mom and sometimes they would earn you don’t attempt that again look.

The stories we boys would share on the front porch of our exploits and discoveries through the woods and fields around the farm were second when it came to listening to Mom and Dad telling stories about when they were growing up. Mom’s stories of walking up a country road with her older brothers late in the evening and seeing panthers stalking along the hillside beside them sent chills up our spines. Dad’s tales of when he was a kid and becoming the unofficial marble shooting champion of the county made us hungry to challenge him later that night to win some of the marbles from the coveted shoebox that held them.

When the stories weren’t being spun then there was music coming from the record player or through the stations on the radio in the living room. The sounds of gospel and country music carried through the screen of the open window to our ears. My brothers and I would be singing along to every word of “Smoky Mountain Rain,” “Fishin’ in the Dark,” or “Amarillo by Morning.” Our collective voices would go silent to hear our parents when they took up singing. Mom’s tender voice would sing along with Kieth Whitley or Dolly Parton. I can still remember my dad singing along to “The Old Rugged Cross”. His voice, which sang at no time unless it was a gospel song, was melodic and deep, proclaiming, “I will cling to the old rugged Cross and exchange it someday for a crown.”

The work was just second to the family memories that were being made. Those peas filled up the containers as they were pulled from their pods. The Corn husk was peeled back and the detailed work of removing the silk was underway. The snapping sound of the green beans carried across the porch on the breeze. All that work for food that would provide meals to eat was nothing compared to the moments that hold such a pleasant memorable place in my heart.