I know, beans don’t write. They lack opposable thumbs and functioning brains, among other things. Snip the snark, please. I’m aware I have a set of opposable thumbs 😉
Rotting leaves don’t crunch, and beans don’t write. That said, do bear with me.
A long time ago, when I was very young and even more gullible than I am now, I met a Sicilian priest (henceforth referred to as Fr. What-A-Waste, thank you Ms. M. D. Russell). The reason for his extended stay in parents’ house merits a whole other post. One that involves alligators, reformed cannibals with poisoned darts, a runaway Jeep and an emergency med-evac. At least, that was what he told me.
But you see? A whole other post.
But I digress. The following is a reconstruction of one of our conversations. I’ve taken creative license to fill in the gaps in my memory. The salient points though, are true. In my defense, this exchange took place a long time ago.
Fr. What-A-Waste: Do you know what you’re named after?
Me: Yes. I was named after a Queen of Belgium.
Fr. What-A-Waste: (smirk) I said “what”, not “who”. You’re named after a bean.
Me: (outrage) You’re lying. What queen would call herself a bean?
Fr. What-A-Waste: You’ll have to ask her. But it’s true. The Italian root word that forms the basis of your name means “bean”. Trust me.
Me: Why? You said all Italians lie.
Fr. What-A-Waste: So?
Me: You’re Italian.
Fr. What-A-Waste: No, I’m Sicilian. We’re different. Sicilians don’t lie.
Me: Don’t Sicilians run the Mafia? Doesn’t that mean they lie all the time? At least to the police?
Fr. What-A-Waste: See, you just proved my point. Even you know about the Mafia. And you’re….
Me: Complete your sentence, I dare you.
Fr. What-A-Waste: (pregnant pause) But you’re missing the point. My point is —
Me: I’m a vegetable?
Fr. What-A-Waste: (laughs) No, not exactly.
Me: (Fab’s patented Death Glare)
Fr. What-A-Waste: My point is that you are a bean. A seed. You need time, nurture, love. And above all, patience. Little bean, you need patience.
Perhaps I should’ve mentioned that I was bawling over my algebra homework when he walked into the living room. He left after telling me to think about it. And I did. For a few minutes anyway. Then I returned to my homework.
So maybe beans can’t write. But with time, nurture, love and more than a little patience, this little bean hopes to learn how.
Until next time.