Thursday, January 22, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

With summer at its peak, I remember most vividly in my youth, of the hot and hazy days that brought the abundance of fresh garden produce into our farmhouse kitchen.
Papa had acquired a plot of black fertile land, a quarter of a mile beyond our home, and each Spring he spent his spare time in seeding, hoeing and weeding his garden.
As the plants thrived and produced, his labor paid off, and we were rewarded with all the vegetables we could eat, and enough over for Mother to can.
I particularly remember our old claw-footed, round, oak dining room table, lengthened by the insertion of extra leaves, and set with Mother’s white linen tablecloths.
As dinner time approached, the dining room was filled with the aroma of fresh green cucumbers, sliced and covered with vinegar the way Papa demanded they be served. Red ripe tomatoes, summer squash, and of course the yellow bantam corn piled high on a platter.
It was a season of plenty. Each day a fresh supply was carried into our kitchen.
When the garden faded and dried up, the remaining string beans were thrashed and the beans stored in the attic tor winter pots.
The cellar shelves were filled with Mother’s canned jars and jellies.
A good feeling of achievement and security held, as the summer sun grew colder.
The garden cleared of its dying roots, would remain barren until another season for planting and harvesting came around.