We stood there together in the produce section filling our plastic bags with pole beans.

I gave the beans a cursory inspection, eyeballing each fistfull before backing the beans into the bag so their stems wouldn’t tear it. One fistful for each kid, one for me. It took me all of fifteen seconds to capture them, stuff the bag, and cross “veggies” off the list. (Don’t judge - I also bought a bag of salad.)

But the old man? He was taking a really long time. One bean at a time, he’d hold it up to the light, then turn it to see all angles, inspecting its merit. Some made it into the plastic bag; others were gently returned to the side of the bean mountain in front of us. He was going to be there forever.

My eyebrow did that thing. Concaved downward at one end, up at the other. My “Well, That’s Odd” face. Not to be confused with the “How Dumb Do You Think I Am?” face, which is more intense.

What was he doing? I mean, a bean is a bean. Unless there’s a huge brown area or it’s way past its prime, practically crinckley like paper, it’s fine. Did he need all his beans to be the same size for some reason? Was he taking OCD to a whole new level? Making art with them?

I kinda smiled, shook my head a little, and went on about my hunting and gathering. Forgot all about that old man for a whole day, when it dawned on me. Actually, more like a crash landing.

You know why the bean fellow was being so excruciatingly careful? I’d bet you a bacon strip that he’s got a mean wife at home.

Maybe she’s not the frying-pan-throwing kind of mean. She’s probably a lovely person in many ways. Maybe she’s the kind of lady who’s always had a houseful of guests for dinner parties, baby showers, and holidays. People might even call her the hostess with the mostest.

Of course, they live elsewhere.

They don’t bear the invisible scars of tongue lashings. They haven’t mastered the art of adjusting their facial expressions to prevent provoking her, like her family has. All they see is magazine-perfect… everything. How she dresses, the indentations left on the carpet by the rake, every bite of food she has cooked; it’s all impeccable.

But once the last visitor’s car exists the end of the driveway, it’s wince time. Nothing any of us had done the entire day was done right. We’d embarrassed her. Didn’t we have any manners? Any class? Any sense? She was ashamed - and we should be, too.

We always knew Grandmommy was prickly. Even with her grandchildren, whom she offered to host for a week every summer. She was most decidedly not the kind of grandmother you wanted to snuggle up with for a bedtime story. Let’s leave it at that.

It was not until I was an adult that I realized she wasn’t just like that with us. She was like that, and more, with Grandad.

He couldn’t utter a sentence or even an opinion without being corrected. If he showed up at the dinner table too early, he was hassling her. Too late, and she’d bellow his name down the hall before clucking and muttering. She took a discomforting amount of glee when she dealt him any kind of setback when they played cards or board games.

And, she’d even berate him for bringing home imperfect beans.

Paid Images from 123r.com