Picking Butter Beans And Trying To Stay Cool

When I was a little girl at Steprock during the Depression, I told my mother, “I’m not ever going to pick butter beans when I get big!” I hated it. They had sharp points on their hulls and sometimes they popped open in your hand.           

Well, I got big. I grew up. And one hot day at Roosevelt, there I was picking butter beans again. Lots of them. I had already picked a five-gallon bucket full and wasn’t yet halfway through.           

My own little girl was playing on her swing in the yard. I yelled, “Carol, go bring me some ice water.”   She quickly ran into the house and, just as quickly, came right back out again. She began running toward me as fast as she could … waving a flyswatter.--AVERIL BEAVER

(The author is a member of the White County Historical Society. Her mother was Blanche Sims King, September 25, 1903 - June 29, 1981. See “Orphan of the Storm,” 2000 White County Heritage.)