Pickles and Daydreams

Photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

Our cucumbers have been prolific this past season. So much so that I can't remember a year like it. We try to grow them each and every year that we can find them to buy. We learned a few years ago, that they are not cold hardy, so they don't start to sell them until later in the spring. Now I know to go back when the temps are warmer at night. This year we chose 3 container pickles. They were supposed to stay small and have tiny little cucumbers on them, which are truly my favorite!

Photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

2 of the 3 plants survived and grew so tall that they needed a trellis, which we made for them. They continued to grow over the top and down from the trellis. Think 'Jack and the Beanstalk' plants! I watered them, nurtured them and hunted for cucumbers daily. I could not believe how easy it was to miss them when they were small. Many of them were huge when I found them.  A memory of my mom, who passed away during the fall of 2022, kept visiting me each time I found an extra large cucumber, that had obviously hidden from me for days! She told us kids stories of her childhood as we were growing up. She frequently talked about working in the fields picking pickles. I remembered her telling us how they could hide and get too big for the store. They had acres and acres of cucumbers, strawberries, apples and other produce. She grew up on a farm near Muskegon Michigan. It was a hard life, one that I was privileged to not have had first hand experience with. 

Picking the pickles was hard work, the stickers were painful and after hours of picking were unavoidable. Hands were sore, backs hurt and bodies were tired. Daydreaming became a way to escape from the misery and pain of the day. 

Photo of an historic photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

My mom proudly hung this picture of she and her sister reading the Spiegel Catalog in our home. My dad, bless his heart, had listened to these stories, too! He hired a talented and lovely woman to paint this picture for my mom. It was not the first, nor the last painting my family had her paint. There were 5 paintings in all. Mom moved them from home to home with her over the years. Until her passing, they were always together. They were also all on display together at her Celebration of Life, along with the actual pictures they were each inspired from.  

Painting by Charlotte Wiskow. Photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

I had forgotten the words of the following poem I wrote for my mother until recently. I finally had the emotional energy to hang it up in her honor and read it once again. Awe, no wonder every time I found a large pickle that had been hiding from me, I thought of my mom. 

Photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

Dreaming

9/15/1995

I always remember

the stories

my mother told

of her many years

working in the fields

Her hands raw

from picking the 

pickles from their vines. 

Her jeans worn thin

from scraping them

along the rows and rows, 

and acres and acres of pickles

Her stories often times told 

about the long awaited 

moment...the arrival of

the "Spiegel Catalog!"

After a long days work

in the hot fields, 

they would search 

through its glossy pages.

To dream of the time

they could order 

their clothes for school!

The threadbare jeans, 

traded for skirt and 

matching sweater. 

Their dirty faces and hair 

clean and shiny

after a long awaited hot bath!

A way of life traded

for another, sometimes

if only it was, a dream!

Copyright 1995

D. Soderberg

I grew up a privileged white girl in a very different world from my parents! I am grateful for my upbringing and for the stories my parents shared with me. Stories of their very different and very difficult upbringings. The stories were not easy to hear, but they were oh so important to listen to. These stories ground me and bring me back to a very appreciative space. A space full of gratitude for what I had growing up and for what I am blessed to have now in my early retirement years. 

Photo by Debbie Soderberg Kirchner

My mother's hands worked hard, so that I could live a better life than she lived. She felt pain, I did not feel, she struggled, so I could be strong and she dreamed of a wonderful life, I benefited from. 

Where do you come from?

What stories do you hold close to your heart, as you think of your family and your historical roots? 

How are you better because of these stories? Have you written them down for future generations to hear, to learn from and to be grateful for?

Manifest a Magical Day!