Tomato Carnival

A little about timing and a lot about love

We picked a date to plant our tomatoes, and then there was a cold snap, so we paused more than a week from our original plan, which was a bit discouraging.

We were very excited when planting day finally arrived last Sunday.

It took a full afternoon to dig the 28 holes, fertilize, water, plant the tomatoes deep, set the cages, drive the stakes, and add the tomato tags. We also put plants in containers along our fence.

Our garden is in the front yard. (Obviously, no HOA.) I lovingly call it a tomato carnival. The red, light green, and dark green cages brighten things up, and the tomato tags add another little pop. It is all watched over by a scarecrow.

Apparently our work paid off because when a big storm hit Friday night, the cages stayed put.

I felt so helpless as the hail began to rain down. There was nothing I could do but wait.

When the heavy stuff cleared, but rain was still falling, I put on a jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and went out to look at the damage. There was some, but it was dark and hard to tell just how bad. I knew a few plants were destroyed and the flowers looked pitiful. I pulled up leaves and branches that were weighing plants down and called it a night.

The morning light showed a mess. Limbs and leaves all over the yard. Broken lights on the back porch. But the scarecrow was still standing like a champ.

Several months ago Leslie and I had a discussion about whether sunrise or sunset was our favorite. Mine, without a doubt, is sunrise.

In sickness or sitting with the sick, I have desired the sunrise like I have never desired a sunset.

There is something about the sun coming up that brings relief. We made it through the night.

Barbara Brown Taylor has a beautiful book about recognizing God’s presence and plan in the night. And honestly, these tomato plants remind me of the value of darkness too. Growth happens there.

Still, I love the morning.

And when the light came up on the plants, I was relieved to see the damage was minimal. Everything had been touched, but only a few were destroyed.

Leslie’s plants that we put in the ground midweek did not fare so well. She reports most are a total loss. Thankfully, I did not thin my seedlings, so I still have several tomato plants on hand.

Honestly, I was pleased to look over and see those extra plants today. It was like they were second and third string players sitting on the bench saying, “Coach, put me in. I’m ready.”

And they are ready. We will replant her garden this week.

Should I have waited another week to plant? Should I have somehow known the storm was coming? I wondered all the usual questions.

I talked to one man this morning who is just now preparing his garden. Another started so early he already has tomatoes on the vine.

When is the perfect time? We watched the weather for weeks before we finally made a decision.

It reminded me of the instructions my OB/GYN gave me before my first child, Gabriel, was born. He told me not to come to the hospital until the contractions were five minutes apart.

On the night of December 1, 2001, when they started, I got out a pen and paper and began recording them.

Seven minutes.
Four minutes.
Eight minutes.
Six minutes.
Five and a half minutes.

All around five, but never exactly five.

And he said five, so I waited.

When I finally got to the hospital, the nurse informed me that I was fully dilated and had missed the window for an epidural.

At that moment, I panicked because I had paid absolutely no attention during the birthing class natural pain relief section because I knew I was getting an epidural. Why would I need to know any of that?

The test was here and I had not studied.

It was high school chemistry all over again.

I am fairly certain my chemistry teacher gave me basically the same exam three times and I remained unprepared every single time. She would probably be very surprised to know that I eventually ended up in a doctoral program (not in chemistry, of course).

Patrick and I did the program together. I thought it would be a fun way to spend our newlywed years. It was not.

On the first night of our first class, the instructor asked what we hoped to do with our education.

Patrick answered, “Professor or truck farmer.”

I was mortified by the latter part of his answer. “Truck farmer,” by the way, means someone who grows produce to sell out of the back of a truck.

It did not sound academic at all.

Patrick has always loved nature and carries fond memories of both sets of grandparents gardening. He has always valued freedom, meaningful work, and real conversation. Truck farmer really checks all his boxes.

At the time, I thought his answer sounded unserious.

Now I think he may have been the only person in the room answering honestly.

It took me six years to finish the coursework, and I was nine months pregnant with my second child, Emaline, when I defended my dissertation.

I had heard that some candidates brought snacks, like a box of donuts, for the conference room presentation, but I decided to put my full Southern hospitality on display and set up a table with a tablecloth, Coca-Cola in glass bottles, homemade cheesecake, flowers, and a poinsettia candleholder glowing with lit candles.

At the time, I thought it was lovely. A setting straight out of Southern Living.

Looking back, it was deeply cringey.

But also kind of brilliant because who is going to fail a woman who could go into labor at any moment while defending her research and serving cheesecake on pretty plates with a sterling silver pie server?

Not that committee, thank goodness.

I gave birth to Emaline one week later.

Unlike Gabriel’s birth, we chose the date because the doctor did not want to deliver her on Christmas Day, her due date.

I had both of my babies in December, which says more about my judgment and intelligence than even my low chemistry grade.

By January every year, I am completely spent.

It is hard not to compare timelines in life.

When you marry.
When you have babies.
When you finish school.
When life finally feels settled.
Who already has fruit on the vine while you are still planting.

I have friends retiring now while I am still very much in a planting season.

This week Patrick and I loaded tomato plants, containers, and dirt into the back of the truck and delivered plants to friends and family.

It was so much fun.

Here we are, finally, all these years later, playing truck farmer in our little front yard patch of earth.

The whole thing looks a bit like a carnival.

But it also looks a lot like love.

Love from the carnival,
Martha

This week’s poem is from the author of the poem, A Notebook, that I shared a few weeks ago. I like his style and I love this scene that also looks a lot like love.

Splitting An Order
Ted Kooser

I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.