But he’d come home from his job at the General Motors assembly plant and get out there and plow up rows and plant seeds and hoe out the weeds. He’d grow butterbeans and peas and squash and cucumbers and okra, none of which I liked to eat. I pretty much lived off of Burger King. Had he planted Whoppers and french fries, I might have been interested.
The few times I’d actually pull myself away from watching Gilligan’s Island and look out there, it almost appeared that he was enjoying himself. I thought he must be insane.
However, the good part was, he pretty much left me out of it – until, that is, the vegetables were actually picked. Then HIS hobby became MY hobby, because all those beans and peas had to be shelled. Maybe I didn’t have the inclination – or sense – to get out and actually help in the garden, but I had two working thumbs, so I was expected to participate in the shelling process.
It was really kind of a social thing. We’d go visit people sometimes, and my late mother would grab a bucket and start shelling butterbeans while they talked. I shelled while watching Braves’ games or just sitting on the back porch talking to mom, shelled until my thumbs bled and my fingernails turned green. It was just part of life.
I grew out of my teenage years, so my brain became fully-formed and I realized that I actually enjoy eating vegetables, and that they’re so much better when they’re fresh. If I went to Burger King now I’d need to order a defibrillator as a side dish.
And this year, at the age of don’t-worry-about-it, I decided to plant a garden of my own – peas, squash, cucumbers, okra, and watermelon. My garden is planted right alongside that of my dad’s, on his land down in Lamar County. One half is mine.
I was going to plant pole beans, but dad informed me that you had to plant those next to a pole, so they’ll grow. Well, who knew THAT was why they called them pole beans? I just thought they were discovered in Poland or something.
I decided this would be a fun thing to do with my father. He’s 84 now, and I thought it would be a way to spend some quality time together. It’s hard to talk to him in the house, because he keeps the TV set at roughly the decibel level of a Black Sabbath concert. I’m going to have to learn sign language to communicate with him before long.
I had great plans to do a lot of stress-relieving, out-in-the-open work in this garden of mine – till the ground, put up some posts and wire and hang some things to keep the deer out, etc. I researched this thoroughly, meaning I Googled “Best way to grow vegetables in Georgia.” I was ready.
I went down to my garden spot to discover my father had already tilled the ground, put up posts, strung some wire, and hung some soap to keep the deer away. Then he proceeded to show me how to plant seeds - break up the ground, put in some fertilizer, mix it in, open the ground back up, put in the seeds, cover it up. Well, duh. What am I, a moron? Who didn’t know that? I DO have access to the Internet, you know.
I started working on my row, and then I looked up and my dad was at the other end of the row, opening up the ground with some sort of garden tool. It was 80 degrees and the sun was beating down and he was sweating – and did I mention he’s 84 YEARS OLD? – and I told him to stop, I would handle it, I knew how to do it.
Why was he giving me so much help? Well, half because he wanted to be helpful, and half because he suspects I’m an idiot who can’t do anything. He thinks this, in part, because he knew me when I was a teenager and a young adult, when I was an idiot who couldn’t do anything. And also, that’s sort of the default position for a father when he thinks of his son.
So I put out my fertilizer, and dropping my seeds on the ground when he looked at me and said, “Did you open the ground back up?” Well, no, matter of fact, I had not. “What are you, a moron?” he said.
Well anyway, I got the suckers planted, and when I went down to check on the garden a couple of weeks later, there were little green sprouts coming out of the ground. Dad is watering them for me, and I’m assuming that at some point they’ll get taller and I’ll have peas to shell and watermelons to cut and squash to – well, I don’t really know what you do to squash, but I can Google it.
Then I can get me a pan, fill it full of peas, turn on the Braves’ game and start working my thumbs while wishing my mom was there for me to talk to. I can hardly wait.
