On a sunny, warm September evening, Silas and I rode up to the farm to pick beans. He had on his trademark look - a straw hat on a thin rope, with crimson trim and a red plastic sheriff’s badge in the center. It’s a part of his favorite outfit - his “cowboy shirt,” a button-down, brown, imitation corduroy material and blue jeans that are three inches too short.
As he climbed out of the truck, he looked over his shoulder at me from under his hat, and said, “You know where I’m going.”
“Raspberries?” I guessed.
“No, to look for McChunkys.”
Milkweed McChunkys - our nickname for monarch caterpillars. They feast on milkweed, then spin their cocoons under the leaves. In the caterpillar stage, they’re striped black and yellow, and as September passes, they take on a delightful plumpness. So, they’re, you know, Milkweed McChunkys.
Every time Silas saw me carrying another bucket of beans to the truck, he’d check to see how much longer. “Almost done,” I’d say, and he’d wander off again. He’s a patient kid.
Unable to locate a Milkweed McChunky, he eventually turned his attention to the watermelon patch. He carried over a little melon, and asked if I would “supervision” him while he cut it open.
Silas has used a knife since age three. When you watch both parents use knives all the time, and your best friend is your grandpa, who is always using his knife, the fact that you don’t have a knife starts to irk you early on.
One time, when he was four, I looked up from chopping kale to see him meandering my direction. I remember his slow, weaving route, and how he clutched one hand with the other. Oh, no, I thought. He wasn’t crying, though, so maybe it was nothing. But as he drew closer, the tension in his face was clear.
“Buddy, did you cut yourself?”
He nodded, his eyes welling up.
“Let me see, honey.”
He held up a little bloody slice on his finger. Enough to smart, but not serious. When I told him we’d go home and get a bandage and that accidents happen to everybody, the dam finally broke and he burst into sobs in my arms. I do believe that more than the pain of the cut, he feared having his knife privileges revoked.
Starting around age six, he began whittling sticks and bamboo, and my patience. He likes to sit and do it on the porch steps. After passing him for the sixth time, and watching a small branch transform into a punji stick, finally becoming more dangerous than the knife, I have to take it away from him. He gives in willingly, knowing he’s just made something no kid should have.
He’s always had a good sense about the knife, which is why he asks me to “supervision” him with a melon. I do dislike watching him cut a melon, but I have to admit that he’s careful and he knows the limits of his own strength. He understands that if he’s having to try too hard, it’s too dangerous.
After he shared the little watermelon with me, I suggested he go pick raspberries. Jason planted raspberry varieties that ripen in waves, so we have September berries. Silas said he’d wait for me to pick berries. I sighed, thinking how this would prolong an already late evening.
As I continued plucking beans, he chattered about getting a picnic ready for us. “Oh, that’s nice,” I would say, only half paying attention and trying to avoid the thorns in the beans.
When the beans were finally done, he led the way to the berries. We walked down one side, and up the other. It took awhile, since the little fellow would not be rushed during this activity, which to him is a sacred ritual. And besides, he waited ages for his bean-picking mother.
By that time, the sun had dipped below the trees, and I wanted to go home. Hopefully, he’ll forget about this picnic of his, I thought.
As I opened my mouth to say, “Alright, buddy, let’s head on home,” I saw it. I closed my lips tight and swallowed the words. He’d overturned a harvest bin for a table, and flipped over two little buckets for seats. On the table, he’d laid out two tiny watermelons, two Roma tomatoes, and a clump of wood sorrel, roots and all.
“Ready to have your picnic?” I asked instead, incredibly thankful that sometimes my brain does move faster than my tongue.
We sat down on the buckets, and under my wary eye, he cut up his second watermelon of the night, slicing and turning over and over until he had four wedges.
“I picked you some wood sorrel because I know you just love it,” he said, using his best dinner host voice. It was true, it’s a tender, lemony treat I’ve enjoyed ever since my sister-in-law first pointed it out to me a few years ago. I chewed the sorrel and eyed the Romas, wondering if I’d have to eat a whole, plain tomato next.
But a few bites of juicy Blacktail Mountain watermelon, and a couple nibbles of wood sorrel made him happy, so we collected the tomatoes, dismantled the picnic, and me and the sheriff rolled through the tall grass for home.
~ Stella