Good Old Aunt Agnes

It started with a yam I bought in Tucson last February. I intended to bake it for Dennis and me to share, but the yam responded to the siren call of springtime and quickly grew three tiny sprouts. I enjoy watching things grow, so I gave it toothpick supports and put it in a glass of water.

By April, when it was time for us to trek back to Kansas, the yam had several green shoots seven or eight inches high. Could I leave that yam behind to die in the fierce Arizona heat of summer? No, indeed, I could not. Dennis agreed, and, in his whimsical way, decided to name the yam for his Aunt Agnes.

The first day Agnes rode in its glass of water in the front seat cup holder. Unfortunately the air conditioning blew directly on her there and she responded by wilting.  The second day she rode in the back, nestled in Dennis’s hiking boot. “That’s better,” she seemed to say, as she perked right up. Had I known what a star Agnes was destined to become, I’d have photographed her in the boot.

Back home in Kansas, Agnes moved into a less-tippy coffee mug.

As the sprouts grew longer, I broke them off their mama and set them in glasses of water to develop their own roots.

When there were twenty well-developed plants, Dennis set them out in the garden plot he had reserved, marking each plant with a yellow flag.

Agnes was still producing shoots, so she went to live with Laurie, our dear neighbor, where she produced enough yam starts to fill Laurie’s garden space. Finally, Laurie called to say that Agnes was still producing, but was nonetheless headed for the compost pile. Laurie felt sorry about that, but neither of us had more room for more yams.

Agnes’s offspring grew to cover a corner of our garden, completely hiding the yellow flags. The plants had beautiful pink flowers hiding among the leaves.

At last a killing freeze came, reducing the plants to blackened vines and leaves, and, incidentally, revealing the yellow flags that indicated where Dennis should dig for yams.

The intrigue of growing yams and potatoes is that one doesn’t know whether the tubers will be of decent size until it’s time to dig. Well, Agnes’s progeny did not disappoint.

When the digging was finished Dennis spread the yams on newspaper to cure. In a couple of weeks their delicate skins will toughen enough to be stored in baskets.

You may notice a heap of small yams in the center of the above photo. Every plant produces small yams in addition to large ones. As Dennis was digging, I encouraged him to discard the small ones, but he said our forefathers couldn’t afford to waste anything, and he didn’t intend to either. He expects me to make sweet potato pies of the small ones, and that’s going to be a lot of pies. I have a recipe from Craig Claiborn’s Southern Cooking ready to go.

Aunt Agnes's lineage will live on, for I intend to save one yam to start another generation for the 2018 garden. I may or may not live to see it, but I know that Laurie and Dennis will see that Agnes’s lineage goes on and on, as mine will when I’m relegated to the compost heap.

Copyright 2017 by Shirley Domer

The Loneliness of Pain

Late in August I began to notice pain on the right side of my spine, as well as fierce itching in the same area. Over the next few days, the pain increased in both intensity and frequency.

This was the beginning of a lonely, frightening two-month nightmare that still has not completely ended. The pain spread around my side and under my ribs, all on the right side. Pain woke me up at night and I was sleeping only three or four hours. Peristalsis  stopped and I became constipated. My appetite dropped and I lost almost ten pounds.

I saw doctors. I visited the hospital’s emergency room twice. I had X-rays, a CT (computed tomography) scan, blood tests, and a thoracic MRI. No doctor, nurse, or technician could say what was causing my pain.  All they offered me was opioids. My doctor suggested I should get a massage. Dennis wondered if my symptoms were psychological.

I saw a gastroenterologist, thinking that he could at least deal with my lack of peristaltic action.  He gave me pharmaceutical samples, with the promise they would get things moving. They had no effect.

I was in despair and wondered if death had come calling. If only I knew what was causing all my agony, as least I’d know what was going on. Then one day as I was lying in bed, trying to catch an hour’s sleep, my back furiously itching, I remembered that the gastro guy checked my back for an outbreak of shingles. He found no rash, and dismissed that possibility. But lying there, unable to sleep, I wondered if a person could have shingles without a rash.

Eureka! There is such a thing and it’s called herpes sine zostere! It’s uncommon, but it happens often enough to have a name. My doctors had never heard of it and were skeptical or disinterested. Heavens! The very idea of a patient correctly self-diagnosing was offensive to them.

Well, never mind. I have an acupuncturist, a chiropractor, and several friends and relative who use natural remedies. I’m taking olive leaf extract (an antiviral), a variety of herbs for constipation, lemon balm tea to relax my tension and several glasses of water every day. I’m gradually getting well, although I’m still underweight and tired.

Looking back I believe this has been the loneliest time of my life. Pain is all consuming and isolating. When one stops participating in life, life passes one by. People can sympathize and try to help, but then they go on with their lives, as they should. It would serve no purpose to linger with a person who is suffering.  That person must go it alone. It is enough to be remembered, thought of, and called. An occasional visitor is cheering. Gifts of prepared food help keep us going, but basically we are alone with our pain.

Still, there have been distractions from pain. I’ve read a lot of books, some very long. I’ve made a couple of pies and baked loaves of bread. Most of all I’ve enjoyed a piece of ginger root that was lost for a time in the bottom of the fruit bowl. When it turned up I noticed it had some swollen spots that appeared to be the beginnings of new shoots. Well, I planted it as an experiment. After several weeks the shoots appeared above the soil and started growing. They kept growing and became my inspiration. If ginger can change from a shriveled husk to a thriving plant, so can I.

The ginger plant is my renewal symbol and very important to me. Consequently, it has gone to live with Oz and Marianne while we spend the winter in Tucson. Here’s Oz, preparing to carry it away. Knowing that Oz is six feet six inches tall helps one appreciate how that pitiful ginger root has grown.

Copyright 2017 by Shirley Domer