Every summer,
for as long as I remember
the minute the cucumbers
reached proper size
she’d be there with a bucket,
in housedress and apron
to hose those cucumbers down,
get jars ready and do her magic.
 
I remember the year
when I sat with the family
watching Liberace
on black and white TV.
He played his graceful notes
accompanied by the “pop”
of jars as they sealed.
 
At sixteen when my boyfriend
stopped over Friday evenings,
he always caught her in the thick of it,
the house smelling like dill and brine.
“He’ll think I’m a Pickle Packin’ Mama,”
she said with a smile.
I’d ride off in his pink Studebaker,
returning later to find
counter tops covered with jars
that glowed like jade.
 
Now, as summer ends,
odors of dill and vinegar
float through my home,
as I fill the jars
and remember.  


© by Doris Bezio.
Used with the author’s permission.