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Deb Shucka lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Golden Retriever, and three crochety cats. She has written a memoir, God Has No Daughters: A Search for Acceptance, Family, and Love, which this piece is excerpted. On leave from a twenty-two year career as an elementary school teacher, she is currently seeking the agent who will help bring her book to the world. She has been blogging for three years and would love to see you at catbirdscout.
Deb Shucka
Green Tears
Peas hit the stainless bowl with a melodic ping-ping-pinging, my thumb urging them from their protective shell. Pop the blossom end, slit the seam, push the hard green balls out into the world. The rhythm is soothing—pick, pop, slit, push, ping. The background hum of women's voices in Bonnie's kitchen has its own rhythm, providing a rich counterpoint to the first.
Pick, pop, slit, push, ping, ping, ping. Murmur, laugh, sigh.
This is the last picking of the season. There are already dozens of bags of these green jewels frozen for our winter meals. Today's harvest will add to the bounty and provide one last summer meal of creamed peas and new potatoes. Laurel and I dug the potatoes this morning as we stripped the vines in Bonnie's garden, working side by side in companionable silence. The sweet green grass fragrance of the peas balances the potatoes’ musky earth smell coming from the bucket on the floor.
The women are leaving me out of the conversation and letting me be today. Not in an angry, shunning way, but in a walking on eggshells way. Since my period started (three weeks late, angry, gushing) and I came face to face with the clear certainty that God wasn't buying my attempts at being good, I've stopped caring. I go to meetings and sit quietly, praying and singing like always. I do my share of the work. I am respectful of my husband. I don't start conversations, but answer questions politely with as few words as possible.
I don't cry. I don't feel. I don't care.
Pick, pop, slit, push, ping, ping, ping. Murmur, laugh, sigh.
It's nice having this simple job, being surrounded by only women. The steam from the blanching water joins with the heat held in by the bricks of this old house to create a sauna. I sit languid, moist, distant. The backs of my legs itch against the plastic kitchen chair, but the discomfort barely registers. It's a relief to have the ache in my heart gone, to have all feeling gone, except for this rhythm of pushing green drops away from me into a steel lap. The emptiness feels soft as the fluff from the cottonwood trees of my childhood. White, pure, swirling. I let it carry me away to the last time I felt this free from caring.
Pick, pop, slit, push, ping, ping, ping. Murmur, laugh, sigh.
I'm ten or so. Daddy has just walked out toward the field with Effie, my dog.
Effie is short for Euphemia, a name I picked out because I loved the sound of it. She's a little poodle mix we got from the pound, and has been my dog from the beginning. I love her like I can't love anything else in my life. I pick her up and carry her everywhere. I bury my face in her softly wiry fur that's always full of burs and the smell of cow manure. I talk about her incessantly. I love the sound of her name and how cute she is and how funny she is when she walks. She's kind of a grumpy old girl, but not ever with me. She smiles at me when I talk to her, although no one believes me when I say that. She's not allowed to sleep in the house. I'd sleep outside with her if I could figure out how without getting in trouble. She is my favorite thing about being alive.
Effie bit Geoff. Mommy says Effie's been snapping at people for a while, but I don't believe her. Effie has never snapped at me, and I've never seen her bite anyone. How could she do something I didn't see? I'm with her all the time. She might have bitten Geoff. I don't blame her. I'd bite him for her if I could get away with it. He's mean to her, pulls her stubby little tail, grabs her sweet soft floppy ears. I'm entirely too old to be hating my five year old brother so much, but I'd trade him for Effie any day.
Mommy says we can't have a dog that bites. She's old and will only get worse. We can't give her away knowing that she bites, that wouldn't be responsible.
I beg. I cry. I beg some more. I try every bit of reasoning within my grasp, and some that is not. I promise never to let her out of my sight. I promise I'll never ask for anything again as long as I live. I promise I'll be good forever. I cling to my dog, crying so hard I can't breathe. Mommy says stop, you're upsetting Effie. You don't want her to leave you upset do you? You don't want to scare her do you? If you love her as much as you say you do, you'll think of her now.
I let go. I swallow hard. I love you Effie. You're the best dog. Daddy calls her and she trots happily after him, always excited about a trip to the field where mice and birds and snakes are waiting to be discovered. I wait on the porch step alone. I wait and listen. When the sound of the gunshot reaches my ears, I stop feeling anything at all for a very long time.
Pick, pop, slit, push, ping, ping, ping. Murmur, laugh, sigh.
I feel the relief of that not feeling now. This loss of hope is very much the same as losing Effie and it fills me to overflowing. There is no more room for pain or fear or loneliness. There are no more tears. I'm full of cottonwood fluff and surrounded by the rhythm of a summer afternoon shelling peas in the kitchen. If I could stay right here forever, I might bear being alive. I know that's not possible. The peas are running out and it's time to fix dinner.
Pick, pop, slit, push, ping, ping, ping.
