So, in honor of all those who taught me about the land, and who shared their lives and their harvest...
The Tomato Man
The
tomato man walked through his garden rows.
He looked like a scarecrow stuffed with too many twigs and not enough
straw -- sharply angled in all the bending places. He was as tall as the cornstalks that touched
the sky and as skinny as the bamboo bean poles.
His eyes twinkled in the hat shade on his face. His hands moved as he walked through the
garden -- touching, pinching, lifting, brushing -- working magic in his garden.
In the
early spring, as birds relearned their songs and warm air pushed the winter
back into memory, the tomato man began to work.
A giant red and black mechanical beast, hidden all winter in a metal
cage, roared to life at the touch of the tomato man’s hands. Earthworms hid deep in the ground, birds sat
silently in the trees, and children watched with wide eyes while the tiller
beast and the tomato man worked. The
beast’s steel teeth bit into the dirt, chewed it up and spit it out. Hard dirt that refused to form footprints
disappeared into the teeth of that tiller beast and reappeared -- a soft cushion for the tomato man’s feet. The dirt was cool to the children’s
touch. Rich brown earth squished between
bare foot toes, hiding itself under fingernails and behind ears. The garden smelled of sun and showers and
summer. The tomato man’s magic had
begun.
The
tomato man left the tiller beast silent and still, but the tomato man continued
to work. Brown paper sacks rattled in
the breeze, their heavy contents anchoring them firmly to the ground. The children peeked into the sacks and found
treasure beyond imagining. There were
corn seeds like the teeth of golden giants, and smooth round pea seeds that
looked like mother’s pearls. Black-eyed
pea seeds stared with dark Cyclopean eyes.
Teeny tiny spinach seeds, so small it was hard to pick them up alone,
lay next to huge butter bean seeds. The
children carefully carried the treasured seeds and followed the tomato man up
and down and around the garden rows.
Bean
seeds circled teepees of bamboo. Squash
seed stood on hills of earth. Corn and
peas lined up in soldier straight rows.
The rich brown earth covered the seeds, blanketing them in warmth and
moisture and safety. The garden smelled
of pastures and perspiration and promises.
The tomato man’s magic continued.
Now, the
brown paper seed sacks blew around empty and the tomato man worked even
harder. Children holding plastic jugs
marched to places of honor. Behind the
children came the tomato man ... and the tomatoes. Green leaves fluttered with excitement as hole
houses were dug for each plant. Cramped
white roots stretched into comfort beneath the soil and the tomato man’s hands
made sure each plant was straight and secure.
White milk jug castles covered the tomatoes, protecting them from the
cold night air and the plentiful green bugs that thought those baby tomato
plants were lunch. The rich brown earth
fed the plants, giving them a home. The
garden smelled of green and growth and goodness. The tomato man’s magic waited.
For one
day… and then two... the tomato man didn’t work. The children and the tomato man sat by the
garden. They chewed sprigs of grass and
watched clouds make pictures in the blue sky.
The garden didn’t change, but the magic was there. For three days and four and five, the tomato
man watched with the children. For six
and for seven and for eight and for nine, the children waited with the tomato
man. And then...
The
tomato man laughed. From under the
soldier straight rows saluted tiny green shoots. On the squash hills and under the bamboo
teepees peeked peewee sized plants. And
the tomatoes outgrew their castles, their strong arms crawling beyond the
plastic turrets to touch the sky. The
tomato man’s magic could be seen.
Weeks
passed while the tomato man worked again: walking the garden rows --
touching, pinching, lifting, brushing. And at the end of the summer, the tomato
man’s garden magic was complete. Leafy
tents were covered with waxy green beans, reaching down toward the children’s
hands, waiting to be picked. Bright
yellow and green squash rested on earth mounds.
Rows of tall sweet corn and bushes of black-eyed peas rustled as the
children walked by, whispering a welcome.
And, brilliant red tomatoes in wire cages begged children to take them
home.
The
tomato man had worked his magic in the tilling and the planting and the
watching of the garden. He had worked
his magic in the weeding and the feeding and the picking of the produce. But the tomato man’s most important magic
came after all that.
The
tomato man took the beans and the squash and the corn and the peas and
especially the tomatoes and the tomato man gave them away. The children had all they wanted. Their parents ate until they were full. The grocer and the preacher and the neighbors
received garden gifts. The tomato man’s
most important magic -- the magic that made the tomato man’s garden different
from regular gardens -- was the sharing.
The
children loved the tomato man and they understood his magic. And so, every year, just like the tomato man,
the children -- and their children -- and their children -- will walk through
their garden rows: touching, pinching, lifting, brushing -- and sharing, always
sharing the magic of the tomato man’s garden.
