My precious ruby red, heavy-set tomatoes are filled with poisonous black pus. Well, shit.
Years ago, I watched that PBS special on the farmer's wife.* It was a fascinating documentary on being a farmer in the US, but mostly focused on the marital dynamic. I was gripped by the story and convinced I do not have the patience to be a farmer or married to one.
However, the show did not convey the personal heartache from a failed crop. My sweet, leafy sprouts that I have fawned and cooed over, excited by their promise, have led to naught this year. My grandparents were farmers of several acres in Massachusetts. How did they do this? I am not cut out for the disappointment. I feign a cavalier attitude, but I am crushed: store-bought tomatoes for our house this summer.
My Grampa with his prized bounty, 1965.
His green thumb decidedly did not rub off on his granddaughter.
* oh. they divorced in 2006.
No comments:
Post a Comment