Bean Fixin

Fixin beans with a man ain't as satisfyin as when you are fixin with a woman. I can't rightly say why, but that's just the way of it.

For one thing, men don't do as gooder a job as a woman, but I reckon that's a different subject.

Today I trussed myself up in a straight chair to help, not wantin to undo the chiropractor's delicate and possible temporary job on my back.

But Husband had picked the beans yesterday, and they had to be fixed.

Daughter was doin housework while Husband and I commenced stringin beans. But the lure of the chore: the smell, the sound, the generational pull of fixin beans drew her nigh. She came with her pan and knife and set in.

Conversation began.

Beans got fixed.

Women talked and were satisfied, somehow.

You know, that deep contented satisfaction  you get with beans in your lap, the fan blowin on you, a cat in the floor watchin with keen eye, thinkin on how to nab just one bean...

Yes sir, that kind.

May of made my back hurt a little worse, but my heart sure did feel better.