Beans

Growing up on a farm there were few things more dreaded than hearing this phrase uttered from my parent's lips:

"Time to pick beans!"

It was always said with such anticipation, joy almost, like picking beans could be compared to going to get ice cream. Which it can't. Upon hearing that phrase, the reality of what the next few hours of life were going to be like would settle in, and out to the garden we would trudge with bags and buckets. Now when I say garden, you must realize I mean acres and acres of not only beans, but tomatoes, several varieties of squash, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, cucumbers, carrots, corn and I am sure I am forgetting things. OK, so maybe it wasn't acres, but when you are 8 it feels like acres. And my parents to this day can not be accused of having a small garden. It tends to be quite large and mighty prolific. So we would each take two rows (or six) and start picking. And complain about the hours torture we were enduring in the hot sun, and there were always threats of quitting (definitely me), and bouts of fighting with the siblings (all four guilty on this count). There may have been bribes to finish for each other (Lauri), and there probably were those of us who purposefully procrastinated a bit so someone would help us finish (Dan, and I admit guilt on this one), and there were some who wouldn't take advice about the proper stance to avoid pulling hamstrings (Barb). But we would muddle through, and pick each and every row of those darn beans. And just when you would think there would be light at the end of the tunnel (or row), another dreaded phrase:

"Time to tip and break!"

Again, I never could identify with the joy that seemed to come along with these commands. And I was sure that it was for these moments that mom and dad had brought us into this world. Two words: slave labor. So we would sit around the big, wooden kitchen table spread with newspapers and the Mt. Everest of beans and tip and break and fight and harass each other. At the time I was pretty sure those hours would never end. Looking back, I miss those days. Gone are the days of sitting around with my brother and sisters, it is not very often we are all together at the same time anymore. And things have changed. Lots of good changes, spouses and children have come along. Some sad changes; the farm has been sold. But I am thankful for the memories, and believe it or not, I am thankful for the work ethic and the example my parents were in providing for our family. And now I have a garden of my own. And I have my own labor force. They aren't quite ready to pick beans quite yet, maybe next summer... They are going to love it!