November Tomatoes

In somewhat of a desperation moment, late this afternoon as the dark was rapidly approaching, I looked at Mr. Fun and moaned, "I haven't taken any photos today." With cheapie camera in hand to the backyard I walked. Then strolled about, shot the roses--mini-roses, red, coral, and Texas yellow--then I saw the tomatoes.

We have a CD by Ken Medema titled "November Tomatoes" that I like very much. I love every thing "November" so when I saw the tomatoes from across the yard, there on the other side of the pool, I moved closer. These plants are over a year old, but still producing.

Seeing these tomatoes made me think of family members who have loved growing a garden -- my mom, and my Grandpa Teele. Thinking of both of them made me turn to look the other direction on the family tree -- thoughts of little Tristan, our great-grandson began to bubble to the surface (Tristan moved with his mama, our granddaughter Desiree, in mid-July to Norman, Oklahoma, to be near her family). I wonder if Tristan even remembers us. I thought about how my mom used to send recordings of herself to our kids. Son, Shawn and daughter, Dede, loved those taped moments with Grammie. I don't even know where any of those recordings are.

Thinking about those tapes of Mom's voice makes me think of a poem by one of my favorite poets, Maxine Kumin.

"A Distant Grandchild Listens to Farm Sounds"

He is waiting for Grandpa
to step out of the cassette.
The voice that sings him Old MacDonald
simply precedes the body
and so he waits as patiently
as the leopard-spotted dog
who barks on command and whacks
his tail against the woodbox.
Bumbling, gentle, with a big tongue
perhaps the dog will leap out too
after the song is sung.

In the barn the tape recorder
takes in the sound of horses nickering
as they wait for their measures of grain.
The lambs are easy to catch
aaahing in their greed. The aggie truck
that the child loved to ride in coughs
then sputters, playing the beautiful music
of old engines. When they went
to haul cordwood he sat up front.

He will ask to hear over and over
these sounds of Grandpa's devising.
The rain of his hammer, the scrape of his shovel,
the pitch of his whistle calling
the dog to his side, the horses from pasture.
The child has learned this language
while still awaiting his idol.
This is it, this nonappearance.
This is how gods are made.


Good night from Southern California.
Rosie (& Mr. Fun), aka Carol