My youngest daughter and I leave through the front door, our flipflops clopping on the cement to our car. "Rachel!" I call out in my batallion commander mom voice.
"What?" She stops short, her head turning to look back at me.
"Did you say hello to the snapdragons?"
She casts her gaze over the mottled pink and yellow curves of the snaps. "Oh, Mom. You know you are one of those crazy plant ladies."
"Tell them, Rach."
"O.K. Hello snapdragons," she begrudges.
"No. Tell them nicely. Thank them for living in our front yard."
She rolls her eyes and tosses a few words at the flowers before climbing into the car, laughing at her off-the-rocker mother, but I know that later in life when my children conjure me around the table, they will cherish this craziness about me.
Growing up, I learned to tell seasons by what bloomed. In late May after the last frost, my father, when he was well enough, worked a vegetable garden into a patch of ground above our swingset. I'll never again taste a tomato like those my dad produced; all the subsequent tomatoes since have unconsciously lost the competition, second by a large margin. The heirloom tomatoes in the grocery store come close in appearance, irregular bulges and thin brown zippers running through their creases, but their taste is pale and watery.
My father taught me about nurturing tomatoes, ripping old white tee shirts into soft strips that tenderly bound the young stalks that were so easily snapped. He'd handcut the stakes from old wood, sanded to remove splinters. An elaborate wooden frame strung with household twine towered above the rest of the garden like a giant abacus. Peas wrapped their vining tendrils around the string, while the soil below erupted with leaf lettuce, green peppers, zucchini, and, of course, his prize tomatoes. "Get Better Boy plants," my dad would call after my mother and me as we left for the store. Sometimes we could only find Big Boy Tomato plants, which caused my father to worry about the outcome of his crop, but I loved them all the same.
He experimented with something new every year...one year corn, another hot peppers, one year the relatively new cherry tomatoes that could be popped like warm grapes straight from vine to mouth. Nightly, I'd walk up to "pick a salad" for dinner, a long day on my dad's artificial hip causing him to rest in the lawn chair by the kitchen door.
The first years I lived in my own house, my husband and I planted a garden, probably twice the size of my father's, and, while my babies slept, I'd spend an hour hoeing and watering nearly every day. The rewards were large bowls of color, freshness on our plates each night. Sometimes still, I can see the view from our back window then. Down past the peach, apple, and cherry trees we'd planted to mark the births of our first three children, to the right of the second terrace lay the garden. With the window open, there'd be a slight breeze, carrying the faint herby promise of nearly-ripe tomatoes.
When we moved south a bit we lost our terraced back yard, and so we planted tomatoes on the hillside. I staked them with soft white stips of cloth, although I purchased the splintery premade stakes at a garden store. Although I was sure to fill each hole with fertilizer and good topsoil, the plants lasted only two or three days. One morning, I dragged the hose across the dewey grass to find only stubbles, the deer having eaten all but the very base of the stalks.
That year, I listened to other local gardeners as they listed ways to prevent the deer from eating my crops. One suggested Liquid Fence as foolproof, although expensive and foul smelling. Another explained how an outer layer of corn and clover would provide deer with their own garden, keeping them from my plants by supplying a border of sprouting favorites. One listed ingredients on paper for a habanera pepper concoction good for keeping both deer and bunnies away: combine hot peppers in the food processor with water; after straining, add a drop of Elmer's glue and a couple drops of dishwashing detergent--apply often, especially after rain or on new growth.
What did I do? Nothing. The sight of the mowed stalks taunted me. The thought of running out to coat plants with hot pepper and glue after each rain or at the sight of new shoots seemed exhausting. I figured those plants were a small offering to the deer who roamed my hillside at night for having built my house on a piece of land that had once been theirs, once dense with trees.
Most of my gardening occurs close to the house or on our deck these days, although flats of impatiens left waiting on the front sidewalk have been mowed to the quick by hungry rabbits. Figuring that I can protect the growth on my deck, I bring home flats of posies, overpacking each pot according to the rule of three: something high, something dangly, and something full of color and impact. My husband twisted tiny white lights around the grapevine I hung above the door, and on summer evenings. the deck rails blaze with large clear bulbs in red, blue, green, and orange. When I think of my home in the summer, I am on the deck at night, the pitch blackness lit by our fairy lights and the sound of my family's laughter bouncing off of the hillside.
I do talk to my flowers, dreaming that my conversation coaxes deeper pink from vining geraniums, even lovelier circles of lavendar and pale yellow from lantana, and glossier red from begonia petals. The heavy purple plumeria sways in the breeze on its delicate stalk, hopefully listening to my whispers of prayerful awe at its dance. My plants know my secrets, and my reward comes in the form of butterflies and hummingbirds who visit, fluttering and hovering, yellow-winged and green-bodied.
Every summer, I handpick bursting red tomatoes from my friends' crop at the nearby farm. Rich seedy juice runs down my chin. We eat tomatoes every day: tomatoes with olive oil and fresh mozzarella, panzanella, gazpacho, basil and tomato spaghetti, and the best of all--thick cut tomato sandwiches on rustic Italian bread. I haven't found my father in these tomatoes, although I keep trying. Of all the words he took with him when he died, I would like to know what he whispered to his tomato plants as he tamped down the freshly turned earth in our old garden.
"What?" She stops short, her head turning to look back at me.
"Did you say hello to the snapdragons?"
She casts her gaze over the mottled pink and yellow curves of the snaps. "Oh, Mom. You know you are one of those crazy plant ladies."
"Tell them, Rach."
"O.K. Hello snapdragons," she begrudges.
"No. Tell them nicely. Thank them for living in our front yard."
She rolls her eyes and tosses a few words at the flowers before climbing into the car, laughing at her off-the-rocker mother, but I know that later in life when my children conjure me around the table, they will cherish this craziness about me.
Growing up, I learned to tell seasons by what bloomed. In late May after the last frost, my father, when he was well enough, worked a vegetable garden into a patch of ground above our swingset. I'll never again taste a tomato like those my dad produced; all the subsequent tomatoes since have unconsciously lost the competition, second by a large margin. The heirloom tomatoes in the grocery store come close in appearance, irregular bulges and thin brown zippers running through their creases, but their taste is pale and watery.
My father taught me about nurturing tomatoes, ripping old white tee shirts into soft strips that tenderly bound the young stalks that were so easily snapped. He'd handcut the stakes from old wood, sanded to remove splinters. An elaborate wooden frame strung with household twine towered above the rest of the garden like a giant abacus. Peas wrapped their vining tendrils around the string, while the soil below erupted with leaf lettuce, green peppers, zucchini, and, of course, his prize tomatoes. "Get Better Boy plants," my dad would call after my mother and me as we left for the store. Sometimes we could only find Big Boy Tomato plants, which caused my father to worry about the outcome of his crop, but I loved them all the same.
He experimented with something new every year...one year corn, another hot peppers, one year the relatively new cherry tomatoes that could be popped like warm grapes straight from vine to mouth. Nightly, I'd walk up to "pick a salad" for dinner, a long day on my dad's artificial hip causing him to rest in the lawn chair by the kitchen door.
The first years I lived in my own house, my husband and I planted a garden, probably twice the size of my father's, and, while my babies slept, I'd spend an hour hoeing and watering nearly every day. The rewards were large bowls of color, freshness on our plates each night. Sometimes still, I can see the view from our back window then. Down past the peach, apple, and cherry trees we'd planted to mark the births of our first three children, to the right of the second terrace lay the garden. With the window open, there'd be a slight breeze, carrying the faint herby promise of nearly-ripe tomatoes.
When we moved south a bit we lost our terraced back yard, and so we planted tomatoes on the hillside. I staked them with soft white stips of cloth, although I purchased the splintery premade stakes at a garden store. Although I was sure to fill each hole with fertilizer and good topsoil, the plants lasted only two or three days. One morning, I dragged the hose across the dewey grass to find only stubbles, the deer having eaten all but the very base of the stalks.
That year, I listened to other local gardeners as they listed ways to prevent the deer from eating my crops. One suggested Liquid Fence as foolproof, although expensive and foul smelling. Another explained how an outer layer of corn and clover would provide deer with their own garden, keeping them from my plants by supplying a border of sprouting favorites. One listed ingredients on paper for a habanera pepper concoction good for keeping both deer and bunnies away: combine hot peppers in the food processor with water; after straining, add a drop of Elmer's glue and a couple drops of dishwashing detergent--apply often, especially after rain or on new growth.
What did I do? Nothing. The sight of the mowed stalks taunted me. The thought of running out to coat plants with hot pepper and glue after each rain or at the sight of new shoots seemed exhausting. I figured those plants were a small offering to the deer who roamed my hillside at night for having built my house on a piece of land that had once been theirs, once dense with trees.
Most of my gardening occurs close to the house or on our deck these days, although flats of impatiens left waiting on the front sidewalk have been mowed to the quick by hungry rabbits. Figuring that I can protect the growth on my deck, I bring home flats of posies, overpacking each pot according to the rule of three: something high, something dangly, and something full of color and impact. My husband twisted tiny white lights around the grapevine I hung above the door, and on summer evenings. the deck rails blaze with large clear bulbs in red, blue, green, and orange. When I think of my home in the summer, I am on the deck at night, the pitch blackness lit by our fairy lights and the sound of my family's laughter bouncing off of the hillside.
I do talk to my flowers, dreaming that my conversation coaxes deeper pink from vining geraniums, even lovelier circles of lavendar and pale yellow from lantana, and glossier red from begonia petals. The heavy purple plumeria sways in the breeze on its delicate stalk, hopefully listening to my whispers of prayerful awe at its dance. My plants know my secrets, and my reward comes in the form of butterflies and hummingbirds who visit, fluttering and hovering, yellow-winged and green-bodied.
Every summer, I handpick bursting red tomatoes from my friends' crop at the nearby farm. Rich seedy juice runs down my chin. We eat tomatoes every day: tomatoes with olive oil and fresh mozzarella, panzanella, gazpacho, basil and tomato spaghetti, and the best of all--thick cut tomato sandwiches on rustic Italian bread. I haven't found my father in these tomatoes, although I keep trying. Of all the words he took with him when he died, I would like to know what he whispered to his tomato plants as he tamped down the freshly turned earth in our old garden.
4 comments:
I am coming out for one of those tomato sandwiches. Once again you have rekindled my memories and touched my heart. The last few sentences did me in.
Such a lovely, wholesome piece. :). Bravo!
Mmmm. This was beautiful! I have to share an Italy story to go with this. Here, we eat a lot of bruschetta with tomato and mozzarella and olive oil. I love it because it reminds me of summers at home with those fresh tomatoes from the garden. I like my tomatoes thick for on sandwiches, piling the slices high as if it were a quarter-pounder. We took a one-time cooking class near Ponte Vecchio the other night, and for our apertivo, we had eggplant stacked with tomato and mozzarella. Well, all along the process, our instructing chef, Fabrizio, was giving us encouraging "Muolto bene!"s and "Mm! Perfecto!"s, but when he saw how thick I slice my tomatoes, he looked at me and tilted his head down. "No bene. No bene. Agh!" as he picked up the pieces and sliced them each in half. The tomato is just a sentimental fruit. Those juices hold memories, and even when we try to recreate them, we just can't have them back the way they were before.
This makes me even sadder that we don't and can't really have a garden where we live. I have memories of gardens too--running through tomato plants like I was in the jungle...this was before I was afraid of the squishy, fat tomato worms that sometimes feast on the leaves. A lovely piece, and one that has inspired me to get lots of tomatoes at the store (though I realize they're nothing like home-grown).
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