Dreaming of tomatoes HEATHER DAVIS
Yesterday I was dreaming about how my tomatoes would taste -- juicy, soft, and with a hint of greenness. Last week Ghis explained to me how store-bought tomatoes are grown with thicker skins and less water content on purpose so that they are sturdier and more transportable. Well, I didn't want to eat any more of 'their tomatoes.' I was going to grow my own.
It was the first really warm day of the year, and I was turning over the soil in my garden. What I call 'my garden' is really a rectangle-shaped plot next to the company Cascades. The company makes a lot of paper products, toilet paper probably being the most important. Mine is one of about fifty plots in the Drummondville Community Garden.
For a mere $13, I have become the steward of this mini-terrain. That is as long as I comply with five pages of rules. (I must use the land and not plant too many bug-attracting flowers.)
Not an experienced gardener by any means, I attacked the dirt repeatedly with my hoe. Meanwhile, my mind drifted far off into the past to Quebec's early days.
I thought about how hard my pioneering ancestors had worked to clear the land. How it might have felt to dig out trees and stumps, day after day, powered only by maple syrup and greasy breakfasts. The pride they must have felt with each cleared acre.
The love they must have had for the dirt -- the hard won dirt. And what joy they must have felt imagining what would soon grow. The first juicy, red tomato.
Some of the voices in my head come from the book I have been reading - Maria Chapdelaine. I picked up a beautiful copy in Sherbrooke that was Stanstead School property in 1934.
I was also thinking about Ghislain's grandmother. She was one of twenty-four children. Wonder why anyone would have twenty-four children? Well, the government was giving free plots of land to families with twelve children, and they wanted two.
As I wiped the sweat from my brow, I felt centuries away from my suburban Vancouver upbringing. Yes, I was far away and working the land like my Quebécois ancestors before me.
Despite the gentle sky and soft wind, I had only one person for company (aside from the numerous ancestors in my head) Luckily, he was very kind and when my hoe promptly broke in half, he came over and lent me a much sturdier, and more appropriate, pitchfork. He even demonstrated the proper technique, digging up the turf with the energy of a seventeen-year old.
But, in fact, my new friend was eighty.
I explained that I was still learning French and he said it was okay -- he could still remember a few English words from the days when he had lived in Montreal, fifty some years ago. He showed me his plots -- two of them, side by side, that he had been digging up since nine that morning. It was a pleasure to stand there on my patch of dirt and chat. The conversation warmed me as much as the sun.
At 5 p.m., after digging up two-thirds of my garden, I returned the pitchfork. He asked me what I would be planting, and I recited my short list: "Tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, and peas. Lots of peas."
He said that if I soaked them in water for an hour before planting them, I could get a three-day headstart.
I thanked him and as I headed off to my car, I realized that the best part of this experience was not going to be the tomato, but the 'community' in the Gardens.
After all, my ancestors are only imaginary friends. This one was for real.
Copyright © 2000 Heather Davis/Log Cabin Chronicles/0t.2000 |
