Cabbage Salad

The circle of old fishermen outside the barber shop looked on while my brother, the youngest one, an eternal optimist and dreamer as it turned out, began laying out his smuggled fireworks. There being no 4th of July holiday in Canada, he had decided to improvise a celebration, yet being young and not always as clear headed as one might like, hadn't thought it all the way through. He had stolen a box of wooden kitchen matches and meant to put on a show in the square on a warm Saturday night when most of the village would be on hand - he had rockets and missiles and twizzlers, things that raced into the night sky and exploded in showers of brightly colored, hissing sparks. He lit screaming meemies that twitched and strutted on the dirt road while making an ear splitting whine before fizzling out. And it almost went off without a hitch. Boy's as dumb as dead grass, Sparrow commented dryly as the last rocket shot into the air and took an unexpected turn toward Miss Florrie's newly planted cabbage patch. She had been intending to water it for days but had been down and out with a summer cold for the past week and not gotten around to it. The rocket sputtered into the arid leaves and instantly caught fire - one stray spark with just enough life left in it landed on a single papery leaf. In a matter of seconds, the entire first row was in flames and threatening the whole yard beyond. Ayuh, Uncle Willie muttered, Best to call out the buckets. My brother burst into tears.

Being a tightly knit and mostly accustomed to solving their own problems community, the brigade was formed in short order and the fire contained. The first row of cabbage plants was a total loss, the second and third succumbed to water damage, but the fourth survived - a little singed and blackened around the edges but salvageable. Miss Florrie stood on her porch, heavy hearted and grim and trying not to show it. Accidents will happen, she finally said with a brave but shaky smile, And you ,young man, this with eyes sharply narrowed at my brother, are going to learn a thing or two about planting cabbages. Starting tomorrow. If I were you, I wouldn't be late.

My brother hung his head and sighed deeply, images of a carefree summer evaporated and were replaced by the promise of dusk to dawn gardening, but he was a good boy and knew when to cut his losses. Yes, ma'am, said dutifully and Miss Florrie relented, Come inside now, she told him, I have fresh corn muffins and new milk.

And so it was that my youngest brother and Miss Florrie became friends. They spent the next two weeks shoulder to shoulder in the cabbage patch, carefully and meticulously clearing the ruined ground, hoeing, and replanting. Each day at five, precisely when the factory whistle blew, they stretched their backs and put away their garden tools, pronounced it a good days work and shared muffins and milk on the veranda. My brother took his first steps toward growing up by learning a little about commitment, consequences, and accomplishment and between them they produced a remarkable and prolific crop of cabbage. It was, as my grandmother said, a particularly fine season for cole slaw, cabbage salad and gardeners of all ages.