Purple Hull Peas

Purple Hull Peas



I really miss purple hull peas.

I miss pickin' 'em on muggy summer mornings, on Uncle Bill's hill,
Listening to crickets, locusts, mockingbirds, whippoorwills.
Feeling the heat of the sun seep through my clothes,
And watching the sweat drip off Momma's nose.

I miss shellin' 'em in the early evening, on the porch swing,
Peas filling the bowl, and my fingers blackening.
We froze some, and canned a lot,
But we always kept some for a fresh pot.

I miss eatin' 'em, just like a soup in a bowl,
and fightin' with my sister, just after school,
About who ate more. There was never a winner,
We'd both have to explain why there were none left for dinner.

I found some in the store once, 'field peas' they called 'em.
It had been a long time, so I went ahead and bought 'em.
I took 'em home and cooked 'em with some bacon in a pan.
But they weren't as good. I didn't have purple hands.