Fruits of His Labor

The sun sits against the clear blue sky. It beams at its fullest intensity and is neither disturbed by the thin cumulus puffs that roll by, or the gentle breeze that stirs the leaves from the tree under which the old man sits. The old man, nicknamed Sonny sit lazily beneath the green leaves of the enormous pecan tree, staring purposely at his crop and the shredded straw baskets used to carry his harvest. The long rows of corn, whose husks have begun to separate, will soon be shucked by his callused and cracked hands. The tomato vines have bent from their ripe and juicy fruit. The massive, curly mustard leaves possess the dark, deep green color represented in the rainbow, that when placed in a pot to cook with ham hocks, salt meat and crushed red pepper, evokes a smell that causes the mouth to water in anticipation of savoring the delectable. The once brown sees that have now formed into plump ovals containing the sweet red water that makes all the neighborhood children drop their games of marbles, jump rope and hopscotch to run happily and excitingly at his first call “watermelons, watermelons for sale.”
The melodious sound of a Dr. Watt flows out the kitchen window, sung by his wife as she does her daily chores. It lulls him into a light sleep as he leans back against the tree. Sweat run down his dark sun baked face. Dirt covers his faded Levi overall, scuffed boots and his grandfather’s straw hat. He dreams wander to the dirt streets of his neighborhood, where all the faces are the same. He drives each narrow street in his old weather beaten 57 Ford truck yelling his wares. “Vegetables for sale! Vegetables! Mustards, turnips, corn, tomatoes, okra, and peas, buy for Sonny cause I aim to please.” Apron clad housewives spring from wooden doors to get the first pick of the hand planted, weeded, nurtured and harvested fruits of his labor.
Each bargained for that night’s supper to be eaten by hungry and overworked sharecroppers. The women Lucy, Sally and Sarah argue back and forth over who’s getting the best picks. Lucy, tall and dark, whose deformed face holds a plug of tobacco in her left jaw can be, heard a block away. Sally, a petite and plump half breed stuffed in a native clothing and moccasins gives Lucy the evil eye as she argues gives as good as she can take. Sarah, medium height and stature and the color of browned cornbread stands between the two ladies acts as a mediator each time Sonny stops with his harvest. After carefully choosing their selections with swelled arms they walk back toward their perspective shotgun house.
Sonny jumps as his wife calls his name. Josie, a shortened form of her given name stands in the screened back door looking as beautiful as the day he met her thirty-five years ago at a church social. It was if she had charmed the hands of time. Her youthful almond colored face glowed as her short black hair swooped around it. Dressed in a sky blue wide tail dress and partially covered by a white homemade apron with pink hand-stitched flowers and two huge pockets. She yells, “Sonny wake up.” He swiftly stand, lifting his shanty straw hat from his sweaty brow, smiles and then goes back to filling the straw baskets one by one.