Ripe for the Picking

I tightened the lid on the 24th jar of tomatoes I had canned. Don’t ask me why I do this. I still have 6 jars left from the thirty-something I canned last year. And that doesn’t include a refrigerator full of quart, pint, and half-pint jars of salsa.

Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”

Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?

So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.

“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.

The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.

“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”

Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.

I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.

With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.

But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.

Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”

I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.


Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com