"Peas, peas, peas, peas. Eating goober peas.
Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas."
My father's collection of Kingston Trio record albums has come to mind. Why?
Southern now, having lived south of the Mason-Dixon Line most of my life, the culture sinks deeper and deeper into my roots. I might have to stretch to bring my father's history with me, but I can try. As a conscientious objector in the 1940s, he worked on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. How's that?
Oh, and I remember him singing, "Peas, peas, peas, peas. Eating goober peas," not often, but once in a while, maybe just with me (and the Trio). That song, I understand, was a favorite among Confederate soldiers, especially near the end of the War when, after being cut off from rail supply lines, boiled peanuts became their emergency ration. Maybe the Mennonites and Quakers, digging post holes and wielding shovels, sang that song, too, up on the Parkway.
Those peanut flowers surprised me this morning. Something I've been looking forward to also appeared.
That woman's smart. Yes, indeed, zucchini.
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