The Tomato Man

Random post...but one that I love because I love the people who inspired it. We had the privilege of living in southeast Arkansas with many who farm for a living, and many who live to grow things--including, I must say, a young couple with young children who needed some fertilizer and pruning.
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.