Welcome to this Oregon community of the 1850’s. You’re invited to stay…as long as you hate change.
I was suspicious of the green beans from the beginning.
The peddler who came down the road had a squint and a one-earred mule. That should of been enough to make me wonder at the value of his wares. I bought 5 packets of seed for a penny. Only one sprouted. That’s about what I expected.
It was green beans, and they suffered an orphan’s bundle of trouble. The cursed deer (may they all be eaten by wolves) mowed the plants off when they were ankle-high. Then a frost nipped the bean ends. But they kept coming back.
Now they’ve turned scary.
I pick a bucket each day, and return the next day to find more green doodles, ripe for picking. Already, the root cellar is lined with jars of green beans. Neighbors lock their doors when they spot me coming with beans instead of zucchini. Not even the cursed deer (may they run in front of a thousand arrows) slow the abundance. After eating their fill, they lie next to the plants, burping and rubbing their bellies with their hooves, and yet more and more beans hang off vines than before.
I’m not sure if this is the work of devils or angels. Roxie Poley, the German gal that lives east of us, told me to pull the plants up and shake their roots at the sun. She’s a little strange in her beliefs. What do you expect? Her husband traps bears for a living.
Of course, it would be a sin to let good food go to waste like that even though my fingers are green from snapping.
I’m hoping for a really early frost.