Smirking Cucumbers

I planted my vegetables, for a few years exactly where I wanted ‘em to be planted. Said to myself: if I had to make a living and nothing grows, no one needs to point fingers, or be anonymous; so, it’s my hoe, my garden—, I’ll clean the scraps up, I’ve been at that so long I can’t possibly wear my hands down (so I told myself). All my life I’ve been at it: they lay it down, I pick it up; weedin’ with a hoe-blade isn’t easy. You try it, see!

I loaned my land out to a retired farmer one year, who had little land to mention, but wanted to grow something: better than me with a hoe he was—made whatever he planted grow (I never could). He even used his own water (he lived across from me, in Alabama back in ’77).

As I stood—day after day—looking out my kitchen window, watching him plant, and hoe, and water, and the cucumbers grow, (God knows what for) —He said those vegetables, cucumbers he done planted would grow fat, and huge—, and they did. He could have shown me a few things about planting, hoeing and growing (back then); things I never thought of, but I just wanted some of those cucumbers. Funny, when we’re young. Now looking back I can still see that old farmer looking over his shoulder at me: smirking.