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Onionsmake me cry--not the lush purple Italians or sweet Vidalias-- slim, willowy ones, scallions up North, but, below the Mason-Dixon, green onions. They're hardy--a must for any kitchen garden, a must for someone who tills the soil to know he's yet a man--still needed, still defined by useful work as my father was those final years. In my back yard, he found a tiny sunny spot, planted sets from his cousin's truck patch. He weeded and loosened the soil with a two-pronged cooking fork. His onions cling to life now, two summers since he left them-- tough, misshapen from their struggle, nodding green tops heavy with sets. Now my son is home, wounded by life and love. He told a friend, "I'm back in the room I had in high school, and everything l own is in there with me." He finds a tiny sunny spot, breaks ground, turning over mounds of tradition, looking for his roots. Bending broad shoulders, thrusting forward a slightly graying head, he will place each heirloom set with care. As I watch his shovel search for the courage of his forebears, see him try to unearth a reason to go on, onions make me cry.
Marcia Camp
Little Rock, Arkansas |