Pete was a teenager in Asheville in the 1940's. His dad worked long hours on the railroad. His mother worked long hours washing clothes for her eight children and keeping them from starvation. They lived a basic, pleasant, solid life with no frills.
The best way Pete could help was to get a job. He only had to put out the word that he was available, and a couple days later a young man stopped by the house to speak to him. Mr. Swain ran his family's farm four miles away and was struggling to keep up with the work now that his brother had left home. He had two uncles that helped, but he needed a strong, young worker. Pete was hired.
Pete would leave home early in the morning. His mom would hand him a biscuit filled with a slice of meat to eat on his four mile walk to work. Pete arrived at the Swain farm ready to work hard. He would do some basic chores and then hitch up the horses and start ploughing the surrounding fields. For the next five hours, Pete followed the team of horses readying the fields. The sun beat down. The ground was tough. By lunch time Pete was sweaty and worn out. And then the dinner bell would ring. It became Pete's favorite sound in the world.
Mrs. Swain was a young farm wife. She was a hard worker, and an enthusiastic cook. She took the responsibility of feeding all the farm hands lunch and responded with passion and skill. Her large, sturdy dining table comfortably sat six - She and Mr. Swain, the two uncles, a hired neighbor and Pete. There was usually a vase of flowers on the table, pitchers of cool water and milk. And platters of food. Every day so much delicious food. A couple of vegetables, fresh from the garden or canned, seasoned perfectly. Potatoes in many different forms. A crock of flavorful beans. There was always a main dish of meat, warm and hearty. There was a bread dish covered with a cloth that held homemade bread, or cornbread, or biscuits or rolls. There was freshly churned butter. And dessert. Always a dessert. Cookies maybe. Or apple pie. Or berry cobbler. Or chocolate cake. Pete spent the mornings behind the horses wondering what might be on that lunch table that day when he pulled his chair up.
There was always plenty of food. Seconds. Thirds even. Always good conversation in that sunny, cheerful kitchen. Plus a few minutes to rest before the men headed back out to the fields for the afternoon. And then Pete would walk the four miles home.
Seventy years later, Pete's farm lunch memories still bring a smile to his face. They make me want to plan better and try harder to give my little farm hands more happy times around a nurturing, creative table.
