VOA Special English -  AMERICAN STORIES - 04/17/2004 - Tomatoes

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Now the Special English Program, American Stories.
Our story today is called Tomatoes. It was written by John Levens Junior. Here is Walter Guthrie with our story.
Mother let no one touch the tomatoes. Why was the mystery to me. I watched her working in the tomato patch. Her son’s brown hands seemed to touch each plant, each green live lovely as if he was a new born child. I was worried she spent so much time in the hard sun.
I decided to speak to her about it. This was not easy. Since father’s death, she liked to be alone, she was with strong most of time.
“Mother,” I asked, “Why do you tire yourself out like young farm hand. You have plenty of help.”
“Oh, Jimmy.” She said it in a slow breath she rose to her feet. She brushed some damp air from a chicken breathing deeply for a moment. I had never seen her so short of breath. I had also noticed that she seemed always tired around the house.
“Sh…” She said, “Isn’t a hot day for the end of June, a real scorcher?”
“You should stay indoors.” I answered, “There is no reason to waste your strength out here.”
She smiled and let me leader back to the house, holding my arm. “You must not worry about me, Jimmy.” She wanted to console me with a slow careful steps.
“You have lots of study to worrying about. Besides what do you know about running a farm?”
“Well, not much, I guess.” My arm’s stiffened. She must think that I was hurt because she quickly talked about something else.
“Are you sure there will lot of Jack in the college you staying home I mean?”
“No. Father’s funeral was so near the end of class term, there is no reason to go back. They will make my marks. Besides I like being here with you. I never see to be with you enough.”
“Yes, yes, it is nice.” She said, entering the kitchen.
“Now, you sit down and let me get you some lemonade. I know how you used to love lemonade when you were little.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I always hated lemonade mother, it was Jenny who loved it.”
My sister Jenny died ten when we were both children.
“Oh, haven’t above.” She laughed, “I’m going to be a joke round farm soon and absent-minded old woman.”
She went to the sink and washed her red tomato colored hand.
“The tomatoes are good this year, Jimmy, big and firm. Lots of them ripe already, Jimmy.”
“Yes, I saw them. And I’ve seen you out in that land field everyday since the funeral. Why don’t you let help worry about the tomatoes? You have a lot to do in house.”
She turned and looked at me.
“Jimmy,” She said firmly, “Don’t interfere with my work on the farm. I know you mean well. But there are so little you understand about things. I’m trying to learn to live with my loneness, Jimmy. I must do it in my own way.”
She was close to tears. I said nothing more. She wanted me
I sat for a long time without moving. I did not know what to do. My thoughts were all stopped. I knew I had interfered and did not blame for telling me not to. But this only made me feel even more useless. Every attempt I made to understand her problem on the droves for I’ve never been a part of farm, really.
Father gave a try to teach me how to farm early in my life. He saw how much I loved books. I was given small jobs around the farm and no more was expected from me.
When business began to get better, seasonal farm workers were using even my small jobs were taken away from me.
That seemed to be the final break with the farm, then the school, college.
Jenny was mother’s pride and delight. She was always being outdoors, running between the rows of vegetables and fruits, laughing and asking questions. She was everything my parents could wish for during her ten years of life. Now mother was left with only son who was a stranger and empty house full of memory of father’s deep laughter and lively footstep of my sister.
I felt bad and left kitchen and walked through the hall way and upstairs to my room. Later, mother came to the door and looked in.
“Mrs. Wallsaw was just visiting, Jimmy, she was such a nice woman. Remember when she used to bring you cake when you had chicken parts.”
“I remember, but it was Jenny who had chicken part.” I laughed.
“Yes, yes, of course. It was Jenny.” She was lost in her thoughts for a moment.
Well, I’m going to take a nice nap. I will pick some those tomatoes later.”
I found it hard to read my book that afternoon. I kept wondering about mother. I was puzzled why she killed so much of herself to tomatoes.
It was almost dinner time when I went down stairs. Mother was not in the kitchen and dinner had not been started. The house was empty. I left the house and began to walk around the farm. The ground seemed strange under my feet. I tried to make myself realize that this was where I was born and grown up. But it was impossible. The farm seemed to be part of someone else’s life, someone I knew but who was not me. I walked toward the tomato patch. I knew where mother was. She was at the furthest end of patch too far from the house for me to see her before.
A large basket of tomatoes lay on the ground. She was on her knees beside it. Her face was buried in her hand, her body was shaking. She looked small, smaller than she usually did. I went to her. When she realized she was not alone, she began to wipe her eyes in shame.
“I know I’m interfering again, mother.” I said softly, “But I must know how I can help, please tell me why you spend all your time out here when it makes you so unhappy.”
She was silent for a long time. “Jimmy,” She said finally, not looking at me but staring straight ahead.
“Your father planted these tomatoes.”
“Father? But he was so ill.”
She put out her hand, gently touching the bush in front of her.
“He was too ill to work. But he would not let to death.
He loved fresh air and sun and working in the ground. You could not stop him from doing something. I tried to talk him out of it. You promise not tiring yourself. And so everyday he came out and planted tomato seeds. And these plants are the only part of crop that was his. I feel there is only part of his life still living and they will be gone at the end of summer.”
I got my knees beside her and put her head on my shoulder.
“Mother, I know I’ve never been much used to you here.”
“But you are going to be a lawyer, Jimmy. I always want you to live a life you choose for yourself.”
“I know, mother, but this is part of my life, too. I regret not taking more of interesting.
I feel so unnecessary. I want to spend part of time here even after I begin working as a lawyer. Thank you for teaching me a little about farming.”
She did not answer.
“It sounds foolish to talk this way after all these years, but mother there is more a father still living than raising these tomatoes. You have to realize that. There is part of father that will live after the summer and the next.”
Slowly, she drew from me.
Our eyes met, and change came over her face. Her expression showed surprise at what I had said. She touched my check.
“Oh, Jimmy. She cried, “Oh, Jimmy, I’m such an old fool.”
Then she stood up and with useful energy I always remembered in her, before I could take it and walked back to the house
Later, at the dinner table, while pouring me a second cup of coffee, she said: “You know, Jimmy, the profit on tomato is higher all the time. Next year, I think I will have bigger and better crop.” She smiled over the coffee pot. “If you spend your vacation here, would you like to help with it?”
You have heard the American story Tomatoes. It was written by John Levens Junior. Your storyteller was Walter Guthrie. This story was published in Best American Short Stories, Volume 8, edited by Robert Overfirst. This story is copyrighted. All rights reserved. This is Shirley Griffith.