Sunday Blues

"Please go out on the porch and trim this bag of beans for me. Here, put them in this colander as you go, and put the trimmings in the bag," said my mother, as she handed me a huge paper bag full of green beans just purchased at a nearby farm.

After all, it was summer, and weekends at our house on Seneca Lake were full of hours swimming, boating, skipping stones, wandering in the woods, and helping my mom cook. Of course, my participation in meal preparation usually consisted of shucking a dozen or so ears of sweetcorn, or snapping the ends off of a mountain of green beans.

I didn't mind helping. I wasn't allowed near the water by myself, and my older siblings somehow always managed to be out in the boat, visiting neighbors, or taking endless walks to the local candy and ice cream shops that eluded my young legs.

Trimming these green beans took me a couple of minutes. They were not as crisp and fragrant like the beans I remember from the farmer in Lodi, New York. Those beans were picked right off of the plants when you ordered them. The farmer knew my mom very well. She was the woman with the large family.

I find it interesting how a mundane task can spark a memory. One of a carefree time, when waking at sunrise and going to bed at sunset was a requirement of childhood. I will never forget those days at the lake, and how my mom would drape a blanket over the opening to my bottom bunk bed, preventing the room light from waking me up.

Snuggled into my private cocoon, I would dream of chasing butterflies and lightning bugs, picking the petals off of daisies, and pretending I was an Indian Princess, searching for exotic plants in the woods. While the rest of the family watched falling stars in the blackness of the night, I would sleep the sleep of a child.

Sound, deep, restful, wonderful. The sound of crickets, owls, and waves, singing their lullaby and good night to me. A crisp, pure tattoo on my young soul.

A memory to cherish.

Sweet dreams, God Bless, I love you.