Oh, my aching back! And legs. And feet.
But that’s what can come of spending three straight days in the garden, especially when you shun other exercise, as I must admit I do.
I tacked on a few vacation days to my weekend away from work, looking forward to leisurely hours among our tomatoes, okra, peppers and bushes of Blue Lake green beans.
Even in the heat wave, I ventured out to do a little checking, a little harvesting, only to be driven back indoors by air so hot and dense that it took my breath away.
I took our grateful Beagle, Buck, inside with me.
While the “official” record-breaking high Saturday registered at 100 degrees, our outdoor thermometer hit 106 — not a fit day for man, woman or their best friend.
The broiling sun backed off a bit Monday, but by then, the task that could have been spread over several days had to be jammed into three — or less, since I also needed time to get ready for my yard sale.
Ever remember saying to yourself, “I don’t want to be like my mother”?
Much as I loved my Mom and admired her talents — gardening ranked high on the list — I wanted to be me and to be known for things I could do that she didn’t (that’s not couldn’t, because you haven’t found the thing my mother couldn’t have done if she once put her mind to it.)
But there I was, Mom’s old garden hat covering my piled up hair, with its flowered tie in a bow under my chin, slathered with bug repellant, knee deep in bush beans.
Blue Lakes were Mom’s favorite, and after a visit, I could always count on going home with a styrofoam cooler brimming with frozen packages of the greenest of beans, a little spinach from early in the season, and okra pods — “no longer than your index finger, that’s when they’re the best,” she’d say.
Anytime she and I fried okra together, we’d plan double what the family needed. We knew from experience that we’d snack on the first half before the second batch got done.
Of all the vegetables Mom grew, tomatoes were my favorite. Still are.
Even when I lived in apartments years back, I’d find a spot or a pot for a tomato plant. Like the late Lewis Grizzard, I believe there’s no greater satisfaction or better taste in the world than homegrown tomatoes.
One year, I drove twice a week from Stone Mountain, Ga., back home to Elbert County — making the 100-mile-plus trip in about 90 minutes, since that was before the 55 speed limit — to help Mom with a garden she promised to divvy up with me. We grew cherry tomato plants as tall as the Georgia pines that lined the mile-long country driveway.
Anyway, back to my tomatoes this year.
With a little help from America’s self-proclaimed “master gardener,” Jerry Baker of PBS fame, the Better Boys are Best Boys this season, producing dense, deep red fruit that fills my hand. A single slice from one of these babies completely covers the bread and Duke’s mayonnaise in my favorite summer sandwich.
Except in spelling, I have never been a public competitor. But with this crop, I just couldn’t resist.
So week before last, five minutes before taking off to cover the Bethware Fair, I decided to take the plunge.
“Pick me out five big tomatoes that all look alike,” I ordered my husband, Ken, while I fished for car keys. He did. I looked them over, picked three or four more from the window, rearranged them, picked again, and ended up with the same five he chose.
Then doubt set in and I started to leave them at home.
But into the bag they went, and onto the car seat. At the first stop light, one rolled off into the floor. Smashed for sure, I thought. Pulling up at Bethware, I expected juice and seeds all over, but no, it was OK. Still, I started to leave them in the car. Then I remembered a philosophy I often use with other people — “You can’t win if you don’t play.”
Into the exhibit hall I went, with 10 minutes to spare before the entry deadline Tuesday. I wondered all week how I’d done. Friends who went to the fair forgot to look, they said.
Saturday, it was nearly dark before Ken and I drove over to pick up the entry and see how I’d fared.
My plate of five fat fruits wore a blue “first premium” ribbon, and fair volunteer Betty White congratulated me and handed me my prize, a bank envelope with $1.50 in it.
You’d have thought I had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. But if I was beaming, you should have seen my husband’s pride in my accomplishment.
It was probably close to what Mother’s would have been, if she were still here.
That little blue ribbon is a tribute to a legacy from my mother that for years I didn’t want to take. But today, aching back and all, it’s priceless.
First published August 1999
