Journey: My Husband, The Harvester

Each summer it smells like Easter around our house. Not in the baked ham, chocolate bunny and jelly bean kind of way, but in the crinkled nose question “is someone dying eggs?” kind of way. Yes, it stinks. However, it’s a good kind of stink if there is such a thing, and once our collective sense of smell acquiesces to the greater cause at hand, we welcome the vinegar-infused aroma. It’s all part of my coach-of-a-husband’s game plan, and it makes me smile (and hold my nose a little) whenever I think about it. 

With an Old Farmer’s Almanac in hand, he starts planning this smelly adventure in April, normally after the basketball season has come to a close and he needs another point of focus to fill the void. In the true spirit of coaching, he draws out a strategy for his growing season and carrying on the family tradition of raising cucumbers and transforming them into the sweetest, crunchiest pickles you’ve ever tasted. Throughout most of the summer, huge ceramic pots passed down from generations before us sit with towels covering them, each with a long wooden spoon and an index card that details each daily step in the two-week process. Although this sticky tradition is a little cumbersome and time-consuming, I’m happy every time I open our pantry of pickles. It’s like a bottled up part of my husband’s favorite memories are thriving within our cabinets. 

The process of turning cucumbers into pickles is an art, and it’s a lot of work. Each of our three girls has two garden rows that she is supposed to monitor, and Jeff and I divide up the other four. Yes, your math is right. That makes 10 rows of cucumbers being harvested in the sweltering heat of a Georgia summer! However, I love it, and so does everyone else – most of the time – even when we’ve waited until the hottest part of the day to attend to our rows and sweat is dripping in salty drops off our eyebrows. Our upturned shirts cradle freshly picked cucumbers like newborn babies as we tread carefully in dirty boots from the garden to the kitchen counter, where we gently dump our daily harvest to be washed. Like a county fair judge, my husband eyes them for size, quality and crispness. He separates the ones that pass his test into cucumbers that will go on to be pickles and cucumbers that will be sliced into salads or dipped into something that contradicts their healthy nature. For the following 14 days, those cucumbers will be chopped, brined, monitored, stirred, sugared and celebrated under the watchful eyes of my husband. Each of the girls claims her own batch to manage, but he primarily oversees the progress. When the day finally comes to seal the jars, my normally serious husband beams with joy as if a vinegary Easter morning came and resurrected his childhood in a hallelujah experience of sweet rewards earned from hard work. 

“Mema’s Pickles” hold a special place in our hearts because of the woman behind this treasured, handed-down recipe. She passed away on March 11, 2001, leaving behind a trail of recipes and memories of a petite, blue-eyed woman whose work ethic, resilience and strength were unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She was a farmwife by definition, and could tackle chores better than any man twice her size. The first time I met her was when Jeff and I were dating in college. He took me out to their farm in Hopkinsville, Kentucky during tobacco harvesting time, which meant that everyone in the family was headed to the fields. I grew up in Kentucky, and had many friends (mostly boys) who planted, cut, hung and dried tobacco, but I had never experienced it myself up close until that day. 

After a quick introduction to Jeff’s grandparents, Mema and Pepa, we headed to the fields where I helped cut tobacco that was a whole head taller than I was. I had never heard of tobacco worms and I didn’t dwell on the other insects that were likely living in those six-foot tall plants. (I was still invincible then.) I was simply glad to be there, and I eagerly wrapped my skinny arms around the prickly stalks, inhaling their sweet smell. Although I wasn’t much of a farm girl, I was raised with a strong work ethic, so I pulled my own weight in this assembly line of harvesting. I later learned that by doing so I had earned Mema’s approval (which was a pretty big deal), and for many years after she would recall how I helped with the tallest plants they ever had grown. 

So, each summer as my husband tills the garden and the cucumber rows increase in number, I sigh. I know how much work it’s going to be, but I can’t help but play a part in the process to keep Mema’s legacy going. My husband, I’ve learned, is a natural born harvester. It’s in his blood. But, it’s not just reserved for cucumbers that will sit for weeks in jars of vinegar, pickling spices, salt and sugar. That work ethic, diligence and patience that runs through his veins is put to good use on a daily basis as a harvester of young men. He’s a Division III college basketball coach, and he’s growing a program at Berry College where he’s cultivating a commitment to hard work on the court, in the classroom and in the community among the boys who want to grow as players and people. Like making pickles, it’s hard work. While it might look glamorous and fun to someone from the outside, there’s a lot of digging in the dirt, cultivating and continual nurturing required before a team produces a bountiful harvest. 

Anyone who is a coach’s wife will tell you that every season brings with it excitement and anxiety. With an average of 25 games spanning a couple of hours in length, that’s 50 solid hours of sitting on the edge of your seat as your husband’s career lies in the hands of 15 or so males aged 18-22 who are hovering between this transformation of boy-turned-man stage of life. Some have left home for the first time. All are simply trying to find their place in this world. There’s a lot besides basketball on their brains. Sometimes they need a coach on the court, but in many cases they need a counselor to help them navigate through tough decisions, a friend to lean on during times of grief or struggle, a father figure to discipline them when they’re going astray or a safe place they know they can always come to. With a house full of daughters at home, our family extends to a team full of young men my husband considers sons. 

As a former player himself, Jeff has spent thousands of hours in gyms practicing his craft. As a coach, he spends the majority of each day encouraging that same kind of work ethic among his players who aren't wearing jerseys to pay for their education. (At the Division III level, athletic scholarships aren’t allowed.) These guys do it for the love of the game. My husband, in turn, coaches them because of his own love of the game and because his calling is rooted in challenging others to be the best they can be. Coaching is like planting seeds in good soil and watering them diligently, then watching them grow, hoping that the care and time invested will spur a healthy harvest and that no distractions impede that growth. As much as he prepares, as much as he watches film on his opponents and as much as he motivates and manages his team, he can’t put on a jersey and go out onto that court and physically do the things to make them win. He can’t make shots. He can’t play defense.  So, some seasons are full of sunshine and rain and the growing is easy, while others endure times of drought and it takes more effort. Like farming, his work is never done. There’s always something (or someone) that needs to be nurtured. 

These boys-becoming-men are part of our family. At the beginning of every season, we invite them over for a home-cooked dinner. Our daughters pitch in to make about nine pans of lasagna, a huge salad and an assortment of desserts. It normally takes us two days to prepare, and, like pickling, it’s messy and time-consuming, but so much worth the effort. I’m always humbled by how many tall people can fit into our living room as we stand in a circle and hold hands before we eat, offering up a prayer for the food and a prayer that this season would be fruitful and productive. It’s a symbol of family, us inviting them into our home and digging our hands in wet noodles and cheese just so they can enjoy something that’s been prepared especially for them. And everyone, even tough, strong basketball players, need a sense of family. 

My husband addresses this tumultuous career with the sleeves-rolled-up determination of a farmer who knows a job needs to be done no matter how dirty and hard it’s going to be. It’s one of the things I admire the most about him. When our team is down by two and there’s just a few seconds left in the game and he calls a time out, I rub my sweaty palms and pace, asking God if it’s okay to pray for a win. There he is, however, calm and in control, drawing up a plan on a whiteboard in the middle of a huddle with his players dripping sweat on the floor in front of him. In a perfect world, each game would end like a Disney movie and we would celebrate a win every time. In the real world, only one team gets the “W” by its name. No matter how hard you play or how much the coach prepares, it’s pass or fail, no A’s, B’s or C’s. It’s certainly not the easiest career in the world. But, then again, my husband doesn’t do “easy.” He plows through the hard, dry earth to create something beautiful and delicious. Throughout my coach's wife career, I’ve learned to be patient and have faith, and realize that the biggest win of all is the impact he’s having on these guys during a critical time in their lives. He’s teaching them the value of hard work, faith and diligence, much like Mema's legacy. It’s a lot like pickle-making. The reward tastes sweeter after you’ve sweated through the heat and patiently stirred all the right ingredients.