Annies Country Pantry

Picking the last of the tomatoes from the vine always is bittersweet time…seeing the end of one season as it ushers in the next we have nothing but memories to formulate what our imagination says will happen in the coming months. For me, my favorite Season, Fall, enters the forefront and I am only left with memories of the past summer as I pick these last tomatoes, I am blessed to see just a few of the yellow pears, clinging, ever so gently, waiting to be rescued for an unknown fate. My memory whisks me nearly 55 years earlier as I stare at those two lonely pear tomatoes. As a young child I remember the rituals our grandparents had for my twin sister and I. We would wake early and stir around in that deep goose down feather bed with feathers my grandmother’s fingers had plucked, until my grandmother came to usher us out to breakfast. Grandma would have that six-inch cast-iron pan sizzling with bacon grease and an egg or two, served with bread and juice and of course, milk fresh from the cow that morning. She always had jam on the table, tomato, as I remember and often grape, but always homemade which would drip ever so slowly down the toast and ultimately down our hands and onto our arms. Today I smile and say “what a mess” which it likely was, but grandma never made anything of it, what else were tongues made for?!

Then, after a quick breakfast we headed out to the shed with grandpa to sharpen the hoes. Every morning, same, sharpen the hoes, then out to the half-acre my grandparents kept for themselves. That morning as grandpa and I made our way around, surveying each plot, corn, lettuce, radishes, squash, pumpkins, potatoes, flowers, thru the grape trellises onto the other side where the currant, raspberry and gooseberry plants lie and onto the tomatoes…. Wait, stop, the tomatoes…the story starts here over 55 years ago. So, with sharpened hoe grandpa had taught me to scrape the hoe across the ground to shave off the few weeds that dare grow in his garden…seemed they didn’t grow, they knew their fate…it would end in a simple beheading and if by chance they substantiated at all, onto the fire so as not to propagate their evil ways among the rest of the garden, That morning, with a rhythm I scraped the ground, a bit to close and “Oh, no, grandpa” I winced, “IM so sorry, I…. grandpa, I slipped.” I don’t remember my grandfather being particularly gruff, although my father remembered his dad that way, I did not. I knew my grandfather to be a giant of a man, walking with a horrible limp which I imagine was the same arthritis that plagues my entire family on his side, he still, however, could outwork a man half his age. (At least that is how I remember it, so it must be true) That morning though, I saw something different, my grandfather appeared shaken, even angry as he began scolding, I became aware of the importance of farmers that morning, Years later I understand that my grandfather took upon himself the weight to be sure that all of his grandchildren were cared for. He burdened that all us kids always had food and grandma, and mom always had food to put up for a Wisconsin winter. As he scolded I felt that weight, the fear that this one plant could have fed our
entire family at maturity a few meals….the farm began to become alive for me…..it wasn’t just a simple stroll as I’d always seen it, to my grandfather there was a reason we began at the shed and wound our way around the garden assessing what needed water and what demanded weed removal. That morning though, as he glared at me, describing my carelessness I felt a tightness I’d never felt before and was overwhelmed with a fear of demise, not for me, but for all of us, I couldn’t see half an acre around us filled with a garden that seemed as plush as the Garden of Eden, everything narrowed to that tiny plant, that which began to quickly shrivel in the hot sun. It seemed like we stood there the entire morning…although it was maybe only a minute or two, my devastation that I had felt I broke a covenant with my grandfather…..it still pangs me as I tell the story…..

My grand father was a Christian man, he taught us about God, we knew the stories of the bible, he always saw to it that we were in church, and I am certain the “rest of this story” lies in the grasp of “mercy.” The next day as I came out for breakfast grandpa must have known I’d tossed the night before. I’d not eaten lunch or dinner and I believe that giant of a man knew, he knew it was not careless child’s play that demanded the sacrifice of that tomato plant…..but something changed. We did all the normal rituals, got out the watering cans, sharpened the hoes and made the morning garden walk….until the tomatoes. As I rounded the corner, head hung, I caught a glimpse of something yellow, not something….LOTS of somethings….. Here, among the young plants, the one I’d killed was a beautiful pear tomato plant, lush with fruit…..I must have squealed, I remember running to my grandfather, tongue tied, stuttering at my overwhelming reality was “Grace.” To that, my grandfather told me a story of a man who forgave him when he erred, he explained Grace, although I’m certain I was still too young to understand, I understood clearly that my grandfather knew I was not engaged in child’s play with carelessness when my hoe slipped and grandfather knew I needed to know he knew that. Years later I understood that my grandfather had gone to a different farm and asked for that pear tomato plant in full bloom and he transplanted it in the same spot as mine had been.

Nothing more was ever said about those days in the garden, my grandfather just softly asked “you wont forget to water her, will you?”

Grandpa died six months later; I’d just turned 8.