Memories Monday

Sitting at the picnic table in the backyard of the Saratoga house. We're snapping green beans so that my mom can pile them into freezer containers, beans for us to eat, later that winter. Green beans, meatloaf. Scalloped potatoes.

The pile of beans is so high that I can't see my brothers on the other side. It's not something I particularly mind doing, snapping green beans, but it seems to go on forever. As soon as we manage to make a dent in the mountain, my dad comes by and throws another bucketful on the table. I suspect my brothers aren't doing much, that it's just me -- snap, snap, snap. Toss it on the done pile. Pick another one. Snap, snap, snap.

And so the afternoon goes, the wooden bench getting more and more uncomfortable, the sound of insects and birds changing, coming and going, the sun setting. Cool grass under my feet. And the endless beans, long green velvety beans.