Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Peas picked and okra planted and a few rows of stuff weeded and sweat ran off me in torrents and I remember my grandfather, pulling his handkerchief out of his pockets and wiping his face, his head, his neck as he worked outside in the coastal Florida heat and suddenly I wonder- am I just trying to please him, finally, by working like he did?
I do not know.
Maybe it's just his genes in me, not the example he set. Maybe it's not the old southern lady yardworking gene I have at all, but the Pennsylvania farmer's gene.
I do not use a handkerchief to wipe my sweat away. I use a well-worn cloth napkin I keep stuffed in my pocket.
I went to town and we had lunch with Lily and the boys and she told them they could not go to Big Lots and I didn't really hear her. I had promised them on Monday that if we went to Japanica this week, I would take them to Big Lots and buy them swimming rings to play in the pool with and so after lunch I headed there, "Come on boys!" and after we left the store, I realized I had upset my daughter and I feel so bad.
I would never in this lifetime presume to go against what one of my children told their children. I would no more do that than say anything to consciously upset them. It is not in my bones and I feel so bad and I apologized but I was wrong. Nothing makes me feel worse than roiling the waters of the love between us.
Jessie and I went to the hippie store and she bought a new Indian print bedspread to put on her couch and then we went to the little farmers market happening outside the coffee shop on the lake and then we went into the coffee shop and it was filled with young mothers and hipsters and there were so many people and I time-tripped into many dimensions and finally, I had to leave. Too much to take in and why the hell is my mind so raw and open to everything all the time and why can't I just be what I feel which is invisible and not feel as if I have to take everything in, all at once, everywhere?
Is this why I love being home where there is nothing I have to take in but that which is so familiar, so mine? Where I can be invisible because there is no one here to see me except the chickens, the ducks, the cat who looks at me through sleepy-lidded eyes?
I don't know.
I'm going to make eggrolls. Chop up some of those peas and stir fry them with onions and carrots from the garden and broccoli slaw and sprouts and mushrooms and tofu. Wrap them lovingly like vegetables in a diaper, bake them in the oven.
One of my husband's favorite meals.
Yes. I planted the okra and I did some weeding and the sprinkler's on again and the tomatoes look good and the potatoes really need digging up and the peas just keep giving and the beans are blooming and the cucumbers are climbing and the peppers and eggplant are...still alive.
If I get okra I will pickle it. I hate growing okra. It is prickly and makes me break out when I pick it and ants love it and sting the crap out of me, too.
To live is to suffer. To suffer is to live.
Not really. I don't believe that. I believe we suffer enough with what life brings us but pickled okra can be worth the suffering.
Sweet and sour. Like the sauce I serve with the eggrolls.