I call him Mr. Bean Jeans, because the term seed saver isn’t as fun as the moniker I’ve chosen.
I first met William Ritter during an appropriately-named event called, Hootenanny, a title bestowed on a gathering whereby string instruments are plucked and folk music sang until the wee hours of morning. Back in the day, a little brown jug would also pass from lip to lip to liven up the crowd. However, this story isn’t about corn juice, it’s about books and beans.
Ritter is a lover of Southern Appalachia whose fingers bear the calluses made by the instrument he plays and from the seeds he cultivates. He’s a young man, just shy of 40, but an older soul you shall never meet.
When Helene brought Western North Carolina to her knees, I knew the dark days without power would turn pitch black when William finally returned home to open the freezer where he keeps a variety of heirloom seeds. He believes, as do many Appalachians, that each seed tells a story. Stories that get lost when a generation dies; stories that are tossed in the trash by children who have no interest in growing their own.
Instead of tossing the seeds, Mr. Bean Jeans held a seed swap for his community. He, like other Appalachians, knows it’s a sin to waste a seed, especially when companies are begging for growers. Before you toss out an heirloom seed, please consider folk like William and me who will take good care of something you just don’t want to fool with. Or, find a seed bank through your local library, or Cooperative Extension Service.
I guess you could say it was my love of books, and beans, that lead me to a classroom inside the Judge Inman building of Walters State Community College for the annual Mildred Haun Conference in Morristown, Tennessee. From the moment I stepped inside, I felt that familiar sense of belonging. I knew Judge Inman during my time as an employee for the Tennessee Court of Appeals. A photo of him welcomed me in the lobby, pricking my homesick heart.
The theme for this year’s conference: “Cookin’ Up the Good Stuff,” promised to provide lively entertainment while celebrating not only the life of noted mountain writer Mildred Haun, but Appalachian food. I double dog dare you to find another conference where chicken and dumplings, fried green tomatoes, and apple stack cake are served. It was during this hearty lunch where attendees flooded the atrium sitting elbow to elbow just like we would sit around Granny’s table. We talked about what we were reading and writing, while students read their contest submissions. If you’ve been concerned that reading has fallen out of fashion, be of good cheer. Reading is alive and well in the mountains of East Tennessee.
Danita Dodson read poetry that urged me to close my eyes and remember the women who raised me. Speaking of the process of canning, she said,
“I hear my ancestors speak-
I see them-
Preserved in Mason jars.”
Mandy Fugate reminded us that food is the keeper of history, the gateway to memory. She spoke of the last jar of beans, and the importance of honoring those who had a hand in raising us. I came away thinking how difficult it is to eat the last jar of beans canned by your granny.
These speakers got me thinking about beans; specifically my favorite bean. I wonder, can an Appalachian truly have a favorite bean when there are so many to choose from?
Even the man in black, Johnny Cash, had an affinity for beans when he belted out the song Look at Them Beans, released in 1975.
Hey look at them beans and look at that corn
And I bet them watermelons must be three feet long
Man look at them tomatoes and look at them peas
Well I know if papa was here right now he’d sure be pleased
Simply put, beans make Appalachians happy. Yes, there was a time when our kin needed them to survive. Now, our culinary contentment spans well beyond what Great Granny cooked over the open fire. Of course, we still have the staple of soup beans with cornbread. For the not-from-around-here-folk, soup beans are pinto beans. Soaked the night before, cooked in fatback, or with the hambone from Thanksgiving, and then served the day after cooking for the best flavor. Three days from soak to supper. I personally add chopped pieces of ham; my husband likes onions with a hefty shake of hot sauce. Many prefer a heaping spoon of chowchow perched beside their serving, or ladled right on top.
Wintertime finds us swarming community seed swaps looking for varieties with odd names like, “crease back, greasy back, turkey craw, or cut shorts,” to name a few. Then there are beans that are only known locally based on someone’s name. Mr. Bean Jeans confesses those are his favorite, although we are both quick to add it is impossible to show preference.
I’ve been known to love a baby lima bean that’s swimming in butter. Try as I might, I can’t train my tongue to like a Northern bean. There is something about the overpowering starchiness and a hint of bitterness that makes me turn up my nose. However, I’ve never met a green bean I didn’t like.
It was at the famed Hindman Settlement School in Kentucky where I heard-tell of a swap happening a short 45 minutes away. Even though I should have gone straight home, I knew I would regret not taking myself to this event. Of course, it just so happened it was literally falling a flood, but seed enthusiasts won’t let a little rain get in the way of procurement. There, inside the high school, rows of tables sagged with so many seeds that my brain threatened to go on strike. The Cooperative Extension offered multiple varieties of seeds for free. They weren’t stingy with their offering either. No sir, No Ma’am. Their gifts weighed a quarter pound or more. Farmers sporting their Sunday-go-to-meeting overalls rolled out hand-stitched quilts and sold seeds for $4.00 a bag. I took a chance with a variety called, “Headrick greasy cut short,” based solely on a memory of my mother’s voice which replayed in my ear as I stood at the Farmer’s table. I hadn’t grown up eating cut shorts. We grew white half runners, a string bean with resistant strands I never could efficiently remove.
“Found these beans in the floorboards of a house not far from here,” the man said. As a resident of a tourist town, I didn’t quite believe the story of how he came to be in possession of this particular seed. Stories sell products, and as I counted out my dollars I doubted the legitimacy of his yarn. I took a look at the off-white seeds dotted with light brown flecks. Fat. Healthy. I’ll take them. I would soon learn these cut shorts produce a high yield up until frost. Where a white half runner would wither in the heat, Headrick keeps growing, sending tendrils through the cattle panels that reach for the sun. Come harvest time, the beans cook up with a pot likker (Appalachian for, “bean broth”), that is beyond compare. The shells virtually swim in a rich flavor bath of beauty, which—of course—is made more delectable with a pone of cornbread straight from the oven.
Old Johnny Cash was right, Hey, look at them beans!