Pearl knew exactly how much labor went into producing a freezer full of peas.
Growing them was only the beginning.
They had to be picked.
Sorted.
Shelled.
Cleaned.
Blanched and cooled properly.
Packaged.
Labeled.
And frozen quickly enough under appropriate conditions to preserve their quality.
The work took time.
And for decades, the slowest part had been shelling.
Pearl could shell peas by hand faster than almost anyone Hazel knew.
Her fingers moved with remarkable speed, splitting pods and releasing the peas into a metal bowl with a rhythm she had developed through thousands of repetitions.
But her hands were changing.
Arthritis had begun stiffening her fingers, especially in the mornings. Some days, the knuckles of her right hand swelled enough that she struggled to hold a coffee mug.
She rarely complained.
That made Hazel worry more.
The previous August, Hazel had found her grandmother sitting alone at the kitchen table after midnight, shelling a mountain of purple-hull peas beneath the yellow light.
Pearl's hands were trembling.
A heating pad rested beside her chair.
And three enormous baskets of unshelled pods still waited on the floor.
Hazel stood in the doorway.
"Grandma?"
Pearl looked up.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Hazel approached.
"Why are you doing this now?"
Her grandmother smiled faintly.
"Peas don't wait for a convenient hour."
Hazel looked toward the baskets.
Then toward Pearl's swollen fingers.
She sat down.
"Let me finish."
Pearl shook her head.
"You worked all day."
"So did you."
Her grandmother looked toward her.
For a moment, she seemed ready to argue.
Then she sighed.
"All right."
Hazel took the bowl.
She began shelling.
At first, she moved slowly.
Then faster.
Pearl watched her.
After several minutes, she smiled.
"You're getting better."
Hazel glanced toward her.
"Still nowhere near you."
Pearl laughed softly.
"You've got time."
The words stayed with Hazel.
Because as her grandmother's hands became more painful, Hazel began wondering how many more summers Pearl could spend sitting at that table, trying to preserve enough food for the winter.
And why the family still depended on a broken hand-crank sheller that had been repaired so many times nobody remembered which parts were original.
When Wy's pickup arrived with the three rusted machines, Pearl was in the garden.
She stood beside a bucket of newly picked green beans wearing an old straw hat, a pale-blue blouse, and a long denim skirt.
She watched the truck approach.