Beech Tree News Network

My Aunt Della passed away last week.  She was one of those people who went out of her way to help me.  She taught me how to make tomato juice, grape juice, mashed potatoes and oatmeal.  I never forgot any of those things.  You don’t forget people who believe in you and trust you to have enough sense to do things they take the time to teach you.

                At her funeral, the pastor, who had known Aunt Della and Uncle Curtis for forty of the sixty-six years they were married, said Della was the perfect farmer’s wife.  Sitting across the aisle from him, I heard my uncle whisper, “Yes she was.”  Della cooked, cleaned, helped with the cattle and crops, and even made the family’s clothes.  I could see her at every station: cooking oatmeal in the morning, pulling work clothes up out of the big tub on the washer then running them through the wringer, patching tears in pants on the sewing machine, and holding the gate open as Curtis drove the tractor through.

                Out of all of my sisters, I was the only one who became a farmer’s wife.  I never thought about it until last Wednesday morning when Garey and I, along with our granddaughter, were hoeing the nearly 250 sweet potato plants we set out a couple of weeks before.  Garey and I have been involved in different businesses during our 43 years together, but during that time, we’ve also farmed on the side.

                As the pastor continued to talk about Della and Curtis and their 66 years together, I realized I had watched them together my entire childhood, and somewhere along the way, I must have decided I wanted that lifestyle.  Farming is hard work, but nothing else I’ve ever done is as rewarding as planting and harvesting.  Watching something you’ve put into the ground sprout and take on a life of its own is like being allowed to become part of a miracle.

                The pastor read the following excerpt from the writings of Paul Harvey (radio personality from the 1950’s through the late 1990’s): “And on the eighth day, God looked down on His planned paradise and said, ‘I need a caretaker,’ so God make a farmer.  And on the ninth day, God looked down on His promised paradise, and knew the farmer would need a partner, helper and friend to celebrate the joy of His plan, so God made the farmer’s wife.”

                Sabria spent a couple of nights with us last week.  She always sleeps between Garey and me, and before we drift off to sleep, she always says, “Tell me a story about when you were kids.”  Garey will tell her about him and Tommy Tolbert and their adventures on their bicycles.  On Tuesday night, I told her about Aunt Della and me and the exploding tomatoes—a story I’ve told in this column.  Sabria laughed and asked why I had jammed tomato scraps down into an old bottle.  “I was pretending to be like Aunt Della canning tomato juice,” I explained, “Kids do crazy things.”

                The crazy things I did as a kid I did on that farm, because I was allowed to.  When I show Sabria how to do something, I have the ability to step back and let her try it herself.  Della taught me that.  In the books, TALES OF THE CITY, Anna Madrigal, says, “We must allow room for people to surprise us.”  You can’t give someone what you don’t have.  I have the ability to allow people to surprise me because it was taught to me by my aunt.

                When it comes to my childhood, I tend to focus on the negative aspects, but there were some good parts, as well.  Most of those parts happened on a farm in Meade County run by Della and Curtis Morgan.