Bean Days

By Jenna Rozelle

Beans don’t just walk off the field all bright and shiny.

They’ve been carried around the world

in our palms and pockets,

pressed into the warm soil of spring,

they may as well be prayers.

They get bowled over and rolled over

and shaken and polished and picked at

before they’re ready for Nana Hussey’s pot.

Every Sunday (or was it Saturday?) was bean day.

I can’t remember what kind she used -

Kidney, or Navy, or Soldier I think,

but I do know

there were pickles on a plate

and white bread

and soft butter

and squares of peanut butter fudge

and sometimes cups of custard in the fridge.

No thanks to me.

We’d go down to the basement after supper,

us kids

and make our fun with beano chips

and maybe Christmas tinsel –

spare parts

from that time, before -

stored away

for later.

I never once wondered

what the grown ups were doing upstairs

till now.

They were quiet.

I thought I put too much paprika in the pot this morning,

but by the time the beans were soft

the spice was softer.

My oldest friend brought me flowers,

our dogs wrestled and begged like children,

but not.

If I carry the vase around the house

to keep them in cool shadow,

will they last forever?

I’m rocking now

in a chair my mother sat in

with my brother at her breast,

my picking and polishing done for the day,

flowers hung to dry,

and the wood stove is warm

and the dishes are done

and I am quiet too.

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Jenna Rozelle is a forager, writer, homesteader, and wild foods educator from Maine. She enjoys a generalist approach to the New England outdoors and through her teaching and writing hopes to help people feel curious and comfortable on their home landscapes.

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