Banana Peppers and Honeysuckle

A fence made of honeysuckle

bordered a plateau garden patch

above a bright yellow house embedded in the side

of the town's greatest green hill

like a root proudly exposing our family legacy-

a vestige of being on the victorious side

of the War of Northern Aggression-

the spoils being key 20th century real estate,

and to a hillbilly kid, our very own mountain.

Pilot Hill (now called the Knob)

and really owned only by God

nourished our food-

vegetables grown from its fertile side

as Grandma and I

walked in and out of the light

and shade cast by the perfect harmony of the Sun

and Grandma's gentle laugh

picking vegetables into a wicker basket.

So ladylike, she held no driver's license;

No need when the world was full of gentlemen

who'd care to drive her to the store

to pay for what couldn't or wouldn't grow.

Meanwhile I stole

into her garden when she was away

preparing the after-church fried chicken feast perhaps:

buttermilk biscuits with honey,

banana pudding and the deviled eggs I wouldn't eat.

I wanted to sneak a secret warm red tomato

or a juicy green cucumber

but instead I found banana peppers

and mixed with the fence flower's aroma

I suddenly felt as exposed as the house roots,

naked like Adam. Ashamed, I kneeled,

and instead of praying for forgiveness

violently vomited into the vines of the plant.

I lay there sick near the stomach ick awhile

taking in the strange medley of smells:

banana peppers, and the angelic honeysuckle flowers,

puke, manure fertilizer...

maybe chemicals they don't sell you anymore.

I don't know for sure

if the root of my disquiet was the smell,

or my innocent, curious, disobedience-

or the creeping sense my Grandmother

was greater than the hill

where we grew our food.