Breaking Beans

Breaking beans is one of those things you just grow up doing.  I feel sorry for those that didn’t get to do it growing up, or don’t do it when they are grown up.  I would probably say half the people reading this are trying to figure out if they’ve ever done it or not, and those who haven’t are probably going to google it later.  Breaking beans isn’t what it is all about.  It’s the time you spend doing it that matters; because for that time, nothing else does.

     It’s a time that I want to cry because I miss my little girl so much but I don’t for some odd reason.  I get to saying how much I miss her, but then I notice how perfect the little string that just pulled off the back of the bean is.  I start to get the feeling in my gut about worrying again, and then I see how I just broke that oddly shaped green bean into a shape that looks like a football.  About the time I finish that handful, the feeling of sadness comes back over me, but it quickly stops when that 97 yr old hand reaches in the Food City bag and throws some more in my lap. 

     It’s a time that you hear about how it is going to get easier from a woman that has buried her husband and almost all of her friends.  It’s a time she tells you stories about the “Damn Cows” he left her and how many Damn ears of corn she bought from this Damn lady that her cow kept jumping the fence to get to her garden.  It’s a time where she says she’s proud of you for getting up there and talking at your daughter’s funeral, and doing it with what she calls a certain eloquence.  It’s a time that when all the beans are broke the stories stop, the feelings are put into a pot, and are cooked on low with some ham seasoning.

     I never got to show P how to break beans, but I imagined her there stealing a bean and running off into the house to try and see what it tasted like. (Maybe that was a younger me, maybe I was under the bed, and maybe I left it there because it tasted like dirt.)  She wasn’t there to break the ends and snap it into big pieces, but she was there in the perfect curls of the string and the funny shapes.  Penelope Claire was there in the stories, whether about her or in some way that made it seem it was about her.  Breaking beans could have been anything today and will be something else tomorrow; but that’s how you get through tough times, one handful at a time.