Peas in A Pod

Here it is, the middle of July, and I had just sat down at my deck table to shell peas. As I shelled, I’d pop the occasional pea into my mouth instead of the bowl. Memories of sitting with my grandmother in the front porch swing to shell peas came pouring back as I worked the pods.

Sometimes I can see the sun setting as we shell, the sky in deep pinks and purples with a hint of orange. Other times the sun is still shining strong, yet the breeze through the porch keeps the flies and other pests away. As we shelled, we talked. About anything. Church, school, family, farm, whatever came to mind. Maybe I’d tell her how I’d seen old Maude, the pregnant Hereford, escape her paddock again by jumping the 5 foot tall fence. She had a habit of doing that for each and every one of her pregnancies.

Or maybe we talked about the ponies. Grandpa had got me a Shetland pony who was all black except for a white spot on her forehead the size of a 50 cent piece. She was given the unimaginative name of Star. I’ll write about her later, never fear.

Whatever we talked about, what we were really doing was bonding. I was always fascinated at how Grandma could shell the peas so fast with her injured right hand. For a short time she had worked at a plastics factory to get extra money, and in reaching into an oven to retrieve the just-baked brush, comb & mirror set, the oven door malfunctioned, closing on her wrist. It caused severe damage; her fingers would never straighten again, set permanently into a claw.

But being a farm woman, she made do. What could not be cured must be endured, I’d say. Surgeries could not reverse the damage, and the metal contraption she got from the doctors for physical therapy more often than not was used to entertain us kids. What kid would not be entranced by something metal with leather thongs and rubber bands that fit over your hand like a gauntlet? We were warned about using it to actually punch each other. Grandma had a habit of handing a knife to us and having us cut our own instruments of punishment off a tree outside! We kids learned quickly!!

Grandma wasn’t even slowed down by the accident. She continued to knit, garden, can, tend the animals, whatever it took to keep the farm going. So there we sat, my young legs trying to push the swing into a real SWING, and Grandma’s feet planted firmly on the floor, keeping it down to a slight, steady rocking. She’d snap the top off the pea pod, pop it open, and zip a thumb right through the pod, peas falling into the bowl in her lap. She laughed when I tried to imitate her and the peas went everywhere BUT in the bowl.

I’m a little annoyed that she never clued me in on how good fresh raw peas tasted, but then, if I had known that back then, there would have been fewer peas in my bowl. I LOVE peas! Any way, shape or form. So I guess my Grandma knew what she was doing, as usual.

My peas are done now, and it’s time to plant more if I want some for fall. It is probably too late, but I’ll have to try anyway. I promised my backyard neighbor that I’d plant them along the fence line this time, since she loves peas as much as I do! As long as she leaves the peas on MY side to me, she can have whatever grows on HER side.