Shelling Stories Under the Eaves

Butterbeans featured in a photograph shared on Facebook by Lambs Produce, located on 2nd Loop Road in Florence, SC.

Ah, Facebook—the unofficial museum of forgotten childhood labor. This morning, it decided to jog my memory about the summer ritual of shelling speckled butterbeans on my grandparents’ farm. I suspect I wasn’t grinning back then the way I am now, but hey, time has a way of softening the memory of tedious tasks into something…almost charming.

Now, shelling beans wasn’t hard work, but let’s not pretend it was riveting either. The excitement was mostly contained in the beans themselves—especially the ones flaunting those deep purple speckles like they had been hand-painted by some meticulous bean artist. My cousin Kat, my brother Tommy, and I were tasked with prepping them for grandma’s cooking and canning, while my youngest brother, Darrin, somehow escaped the chore under the flimsy excuse of being “too young.” Suspicious, but unchallengeable.

What was Darrin doing while we were elbow-deep in beans? No idea. But I do remember one crucial detail—our soundtrack. Since I owned the equipment, I naturally appointed myself DJ, forcing Kat and Tommy to listen to whatever I deemed worthy. They protested initially, claiming my selections were “too white,” which, as far as I was concerned, was an absurd way to classify music. It’s either good or it isn’t—and given time, they came around. Probably due to sheer exposure.

Speaking of questionable playlists, one of my prized cassettes featured nothing but TV commercials and CBS soap opera themes—from Love of Life all the way to The Edge of Night. And if you think The Edge of Night didn’t have the most dramatic, world-shifting theme music in existence, then I don’t know what to tell you.

Despite shelling what felt like an infinite supply of butterbeans, Grandma always had a plan for them—most were stored, but the lucky few made it onto our dinner plates. She served them over jasmine rice with homemade cornbread, and honestly, cornbread only tasted good to me when accompanied by butterbeans. A picky boy, but a discerning one.
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Time sure does funny things to memories, doesn’t it? Back then, I was just getting through the chore. Now, looking back, I see the music, the laughter, the ridiculous tape, and the oddly mesmerizing beauty of those purple-speckled beans. And somehow, it all feels more like a snapshot of summer than a task.