Tom and Tomatoes
I leave Frog Holler Farm after a few hours of marking plants in preparation for sale at the Ann Arbor Farmer's Market. Each tomato plant has its own wooden stick, hand written with its name, an heirloom, a cherry, or a big firm tasty variety: Roma, Striped German, rose,
I drive to see Dom, my son's Godfather. Yesterday Dom told me the old man across the street needed yellow tomatoes, low acid, he said. Dom takes care of the old man, sprays his orchard and tills his small garden.
Earlier today I ask Ken at Frog Holler if we have such a thing: low acid yellow tomatoes, for the old man I tell him. Ken pauses, mentally juggling a multitude of tasks: soil prep, irrigation, plant prep, market prep. He's already dirty at , hat ajar and sweat stained. I watch his frantic pace halt; time stops as he tends my query, his face fully attuned only to me, as if my request is the axis upon which the world turns. "
At our best, we all till the same soil and work in the same garden. I can’t help thinking there's something right about it.