Coming Full Circle
I was sitting in Zack’s woodworking shop this morning, shelling black-eyed peas I picked from our garden. This is the same garden we painstakingly prepare each year, agonizing over late freezes, then melting in the Texas heat to tend, weed, water, and pick. Between the cost of the plants and seed, the water, wear and tear on equipment, the high fence we built ourselves, and our time; each vegetable ends up costing astronomically more than what might be procured from the supermarket. Is there a difference? Oh yes. And it’s not only the taste and purity; it’s so much more than that. Besides, you’re able to complain for months about the heat and all the work, such a definite plus.
I was sitting in Zack’s woodworking shop this morning, shelling black-eyed peas I picked from our garden. This is the same garden we painstakingly prepare each year, agonizing over late freezes, then melting in the Texas heat to tend, weed, water, and pick. Between the cost of the plants and seed, the water, wear and tear on equipment, the high fence we built ourselves, and our time; each vegetable ends up costing astronomically more than what might be procured from the supermarket. Is there a difference? Oh yes. And it’s not only the taste and purity; it’s so much more than that. Besides, you’re able to complain for months about the heat and all the work, such a definite plus.
Zack was in his own world, making shelves for his workshop. I knew when I tried to carry on even the simplest conversation that he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Eventually, and with great effort, I managed to stop myself from talking entirely. He was concentrating on dimensions. Best I keep silent to avoid distracting him. So my mind wandered as I shelled the peas, not usually one of my favorite occupations.
It’s all in the attitude, you know. I convince myself of this daily, because it makes mundane chores so much more pleasant. Instead of dreading ironing, I find it “relaxing (when I finally manage to find the time, often after everything in the basket has gone out of style). Instead of despising dish washing, I find it “therapeutic”. And before I know it —- IT IS! Because we put in two little stationary when we made this old farmhouse habitable, I have a wonderful view of the back yard, “The Lane” the cattle use to reach the windmill trough, the wild grape vines on that fence, the field beyond, and the hills in the distance. Because I positioned my bird feeders (seed and hummingbird nectar) and birdbath in my line of sight, standing at the sink is a tremendous joy instead of a chore.
As I shelled the peas, a tedious task, I remembered doing this same job as a very young child —with my mother and probably my aunt as well. I did so many things with both of them. The long years since they left me sometimes fog the details of my earliest memories. “Unzip them”, my mother would laughingly instruct me regarding the peas, coaxing my little fingers into control. And as peas popped and rolled all over, we’d laugh. Being an older-than-usual, first time parent — a career behind her and only one child to raise— with a supportive (even older) husband, Mom found more patience than she might have otherwise been able to muster).
I’d already had childhood and summertime on my mind. Last week I planted yet another gardenia bush. Perhaps the third time’s the charm. They’re temperamental creatures. The blooms began to open a few of days ago, much to my delight. Each time I catch a whiff of that wonderful fragrance, it takes me back to a time long past, my childhood backyard, and my mother’s three gardenia bushes.
As I sat shelling peas, I considered how life can swing full circle, perhaps only for an instant — or sometimes as a large, conscious, premeditated choice (as in our case). There was Zack happily working away, probably with a few thoughts of his uncle’s workshop that he loved as a child. And I was lost in memories of peas, gardenias, and parents. Most likely neither of us could have appreciated the gifts of this lovely, peaceful morning during earlier stages of our separate lives. We were busy with school, careers, families, cities, action, and the grindstone. But here we are now, happy as can be, feeling very lucky for a thousand reasons (that one of us isn’t paralyzed, for one thing), and living a simple life very close in some ways to the deep roots from which we grew. A great aunt (by marriage) shared something with me in her later years. (And it was, quite frankly, the only thought she ever imparted that had any wisdom to it at all). “Each stage of life has its pleasures”, she said. And indeed, it is so very true.
Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/
