Chokecherry Jam

© 2006

Megan slumped into a chair, completely exhausted. She was sweaty from the heat of the kitchen, and every inch of her hands and lower arms seemed to be covered in dark stains. She’d canned twenty eight quart jars of chokecherry jam and syrup, and her feet were so sore from standing at the stove for the last six hours that she was thinking longingly of a hot bath. That was the state that John found her in when he came in from the field.

“You look comfy,” he’d remarked, though he’d actually barely glanced at her on his way to the pantry to wash up from a day of harvesting corn.

Megan sighed heavily. She’d given no thought to what time it was. John, Charlie and Christopher were all back and expecting supper, and she’d been so wrapped up in her jelly making that she’d forgotten to pull anything from the freezer.

John returned from washing and found her wracking her brain for something quick she could throw together for supper. She must have been in a frustrated pose, because her husband’s immediate reaction was, “You look worn out, Sparky. Whatcha’ been doin’ all day?”

Megan glowered. Her husband had dense moments, as did she, but even he couldn’t miss the numerous mason jars covering the table. “Did’ja get corn dust in your eyes out there?” she asked sarcastically. “I had all them berries to set up and that’s all I got done since just before noon.” She glanced at her mulberry colored hands and added, “City women wear nail paint and get manicures. Me? I get burns and berry stains.”

John actually chuckled. “Them fancy women spend all their money trying ta’ look half as good as you, and they never get there.”

Megan stared at him for a moment, mouth hanging open and disheveled hair dangling in her eyes. “Are ya’ really flirting with me when I smell like sweat and syrup? I badly need a bath, desperately want a nap, an’ I plum forgot to put supper on. I can’t even come up with somethin’ to feed you an’ the boys.”

“I’m thinkin’ bread and jam,” John replied seriously. “An’ anyways, you look good to me when you’re sweaty and sassy,” he added, his green eyes twinkling.

Megan started to laugh, and as tired as she was, she couldn’t stop laughing once she’d gotten started. The pair of them sat at the table, laughing over everything and nothing, right up until the boys came into the house. Christopher and Charlie stared at their parents looking slightly concerned and they headed to the panty to wash, having only raised their eyebrows at one another.

“Ya’ been workin’ all day, the three of ya’,” Megan said practically, having finally stopped laughing. “I can’t feed ya’ just bread and jam.”

“There’s always corn,” John teased, getting her laughing again. “I ‘magine we’ll make do. An’ anyways, you been workin’ all day too. So what d’ya say we flip on Ed Sullivan, put our feet up, and behave like we’re kids again and ma’s away from home. The boys might think we flipped our lids, but it’s good ta’ keep ‘em guessin’.”

Megan smiled broadly, happy to take him up on the offer. She was lucky and she knew it. Many of her friends were completely taken for granted by their husbands. When she was a little girl, she had imagined romance. She vaguely recalled that those imaginings had something to do with fine clothes and sappy dances. In truth, romance was something entirely different: giggling like an idiot with a man who knew she snored sometimes, sharing a cold and still managing to find each other sexy, eating bread and jam by the radio when the house needed cleaning and they were too tired to sit up properly, a pinch on the rear when neither of them would stay awake long enough for anything more than innuendo. That was romance at its finest, especially after nineteen years of marriage.

As John had suggested, the boys seemed to think it was all great fun, eating warm jam on cold biscuits as they listened to the Ed Sullivan Show on the front porch. John sat next to Megan in the old porch swing and patted her knee with one large, callused hand, well after the boys had run out to the yard to throw a football around until it got too dark to see. Megan leaned her head on his shoulder, finding the comfortable spot that she had once joked just fit the curve of her head. “We should do this more often,” John remarked.

“What’s that?” she asked as they swung back and forth slightly.

“Make do,” he answered, the hint of a smile in his voice. “I haven’t got to sit with my best girl of an evenin’ in I don’t remember when. Usually we both got chores an’ such. We should make a date once in awhile to skip cookin’, dishes, and workin’ on ol’ blue.” John motioned toward the pickup that he was forever fixing. “We can make eyes at each other, hold hands, and get the boys whisperin’ ‘bout how we gone bananas.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Megan agreed, laughing merrily.

“So you don’t think it’s a kooky idea, Sparky?”

“Not at all, dear. You’ve always been my kind of crazy.”

John just laughed and kissed her.