For me, May is filled with images of Grandpa, his brothers, and cousins preparing the gardens for vegetable planting. I remember how excited I was to plant the green beans that would grow along the vines. But Deborah, my 10-years-younger sister, remembers green beans that Grandma served on weekends. After reducing his hours at the pastry shop, late Saturday morning became errand time with Grandpa. She recently wrote:
“Do you remember that for years Grandpa drove a black 1948 Plymouth 4-door sedan with a steering wheel that looked like it was made of taffy? The back seat, where grandchildren sat, was big as a sofa and it felt like velvet. The large curved back window gave us a movie view of the beach houses painted like candy canes, white porches and red turrets. On a Saturday drive to Squillo’s Cigar Shop in the city, he would look back at us at stop lights and smile as if he had won first prize at the county fair for his Roma tomatoes.
When we entered the shop he would stop. Look around. And after breathing in the smell of tobacco, he would exhale with a long, loud, “Ahh.” Those short, dark brown cigars were extra stinky. Whenever he pinched my cheeks saying ‘Quanto sei bella,’ and planted a kiss, I could almost touch that lingering scent.
“I loved Saturday afternoon drives because we would come home to a dish of homemade pasta that inevitably involved a side of their garden string beans swimming in tomato sauce.
“Then Grandma would nod to you to get a bottle of her homemade grape juice. She poured the purple nectar into vintage glasses painted with oranges and green leaves. Their food always tasted better than food served anywhere else. And the first time I saw hundreds of canning jars in their basement, I felt that I discovered the secret. I remember staring at the long rows of colorful fruits and vegetables and saying to myself, ‘And to think this is all from their garden.’ “
For most of my own growing-up time, Grandpa was at the pastry shop while I was at home with Grandma. And my green beans memory is one of bushels. We would spend what seemed like forever sitting on the front porch as Grandpa would bring in the green beans. Our job was to break off the stems and snap them to fit into canning jars so Grandma could “put them up.”
Bushels of beans later she would say, “You see how lucky you are. Some children eat food from a can. Thanks to Grandpa, you children have food from God’s good earth. Always be grateful for this.”
For me, May is filled with images of Grandpa, his brothers, and cousins preparing the gardens for vegetable planting. I remember how excited I was to plant the green beans that would grow along the vines. But Deborah, my 10-years-younger sister, remembers green beans that Grandma served on weekends. After reducing his hours at the pastry shop, late Saturday morning became errand time with Grandpa. She recently wrote:
“Do you remember that for years Grandpa drove a black 1948 Plymouth 4-door sedan with a steering wheel that looked like it was made of taffy? The back seat, where grandchildren sat, was big as a sofa and it felt like velvet. The large curved back window gave us a movie view of the beach houses painted like candy canes, white porches and red turrets. On a Saturday drive to Squillo’s Cigar Shop in the city, he would look back at us at stop lights and smile as if he had won first prize at the county fair for his Roma tomatoes.
When we entered the shop he would stop. Look around. And after breathing in the smell of tobacco, he would exhale with a long, loud, “Ahh.” Those short, dark brown cigars were extra stinky. Whenever he pinched my cheeks saying ‘Quanto sei bella,’ and planted a kiss, I could almost touch that lingering scent.
“I loved Saturday afternoon drives because we would come home to a dish of homemade pasta that inevitably involved a side of their garden string beans swimming in tomato sauce.
“Then Grandma would nod to you to get a bottle of her homemade grape juice. She poured the purple nectar into vintage glasses painted with oranges and green leaves. Their food always tasted better than food served anywhere else. And the first time I saw hundreds of canning jars in their basement, I felt that I discovered the secret. I remember staring at the long rows of colorful fruits and vegetables and saying to myself, ‘And to think this is all from their garden.’ “
For most of my own growing-up time, Grandpa was at the pastry shop while I was at home with Grandma. And my green beans memory is one of bushels. We would spend what seemed like forever sitting on the front porch as Grandpa would bring in the green beans. Our job was to break off the stems and snap them to fit into canning jars so Grandma could “put them up.”
Bushels of beans later she would say, “You see how lucky you are. Some children eat food from a can. Thanks to Grandpa, you children have food from God’s good earth. Always be grateful for this.”
Rita Esposito Watson is a Providence Journal relationship columnist who also writes for PsychologyToday.com