In the yard next door, a winsome giggle floats alongside birdsong as a small body tumbles down a grassy slope. The child, a girl no older than five, rolls along with eyes squeezed shut. Pink shorts and a yellow tee-shirt, already streaked with grass stains, flashes in perfect alternating colors as she somersaults like a rolly polly bug. Messy braids whip about her angelic face; somewhere in the grass is her glittery star barrette and the shiny quarter grandma gave her only that morning. She reaches bottom with an audible “hoof!” of air, then sucks in healthy lungful before allowing herself to explode into a fit of laughter.
She pauses to watch Mrs. Next Door picking tomatoes before racing back up the hill again. Another somersault pass ends and she scores herself well for her efforts, just like those real Olympic gymnasts on the television last night, then catches sight of her neighbor again.
“Tomatoes are good, especially when they are still warm from the sun,” Grandpa always says. She reflects on her Grandpa’s favorite tomato recipe, remembering how he loves sitting on the porch, eating them after Grandma marinates them in some salt and balsamic vinegar. This has always been her special time with Grandpa.
Her small hands reach out to the chain link fence and she pulls herself upright. Mrs. Next Door has picked nearly all of the bright red tomatoes by now, filling a large pot to the brim. Mrs. Next Door’s dog, an old mutt with late summer shed fur sticking out at odd angles, ambles over and licks her face through the links.
“Good dog,” she says. Her hand fits neatly through the fence and, as is their custom, dog and girl engage in a little bit of fur plucking, distributing a soft flurry of hair into the summer breeze.
The dog seems to almost smile, turning from side to side as the loose tufts slide out of the coat. The fur seems to take on a life of its own, drifting in the air or slinking along the ground. The girl hopes that Mrs. Next Door doesn’t mind the fur that’s come to rest on the squash plant leaves close by.
Her neighbor makes her way up the slope of the yard and waves. “My, but you’ve all but picked off every last clump of hair,” Mrs. Next Door smiles. “That deserves a reward!”
The girl’s eyes grow larger as Mrs. Next Door lowers the large pot to within her reach. This, too, is a summer ritual. She is permitted to choose as many tomatoes as she can carry. It isn’t much, considering her size, but it is just enough to make Grandpa smile. She selects five very juicy ones, and thanks her neighbor before racing back up the slope.
The last bit of sun begins to fade as the woman climbs the back porch steps. A lightening bug casts off from a tomato bush, lazily dancing in-flight as it prepares for the evening. The garden is bathed in an amber glow, birdsong still rippling upon the humid air.
See more observant scribblings at Sunday Scribblings
The picture below is in answer to one of my friend's questions. She asked, "Exactly what does an Italian refrigerator look like?" Both pictures are of our current crop.
This entry was posted
on Friday, August 15, 2008
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Your story paints a lovely picture of childhood and summer.Very nice.
One edible post!
:D
Has anything changed?
What a delightful story! Indeed there is nothing more delicious than a sun-ripened tomato just off the vine. But your description of the child, her actions and reactions, is delicious too.
Your words flow well. Good job!
Such a delightful story, Toni. I like to think that it is truly YOUR story, your tradition that plays out year after year.