My father was a lucky man. He didn’t want much and what he did want was sitting around the dinner table every Sunday night. If my father were here today he wouldn’t want any gifts wrapped up in boxes. He’d have been happy to see me tending my vegetable garden and carrying on about all of my tomatoes. He never quite understood why I collect tomatoes, of all things, but he collected exotic cars, so I guess it’s in the blood. Even if he didn’t get my obsession he clearly knew how much it meant to me. So, when I went on about the colors and shapes, he would crack a little smile, sometimes chuckle and would willingly sample whichever variety I put in front of him.

In my backyard, across from one of the original tomato beds lies a small patio area. It’s next to one of the newer garden boxes that becomes a riot of color each spring with bearded irises and then transforms to a growing bed for tomatoes plants and grapevines. It’s just a few floor tiles, a white wrought iron bench, and a dwarf Valencia orange tree. The bench was a Father’s Day gift to Dad many years ago. It graced the front porch at my parent’s home although I don’t think they ever sat on it. It was just something that completed his vision of the porch. I grew up in a house that was in the middle of an orange grove. We squeezed fresh orange juice for my Dad every morning before he made the drive downtown to work. This little patio is framed on two sides by several rosebushes…all with names related to music. As a teenager my Dad was an incredibly gifted violinist and pianist, but young men in the 1930’s had more important things to do than pursue their dreams. Somehow, the rosebushes make me feel that I’m helping to keep his dream alive.

Sometimes I’ll go over and sit in this special place in the garden.. There’s a certain black and yellow butterfly that I’m sure hovers right above me because it carries my Father’s spirit. I’ll chat with my Dad as if he’s right there listening to me… It’s where I go to be with him. This place, this thing that I spend so many hours doing, is so much more than just growing tomatoes.

Happy Father’s Day.

Most gardeners who have 100 tomato plants in their gardens also have some type of drip irrigation system. Some are set on timers and some are activated manually.

You’ll notice that I said “most gardeners”. I am not one of them. I prefer to hand water each of my plants, a process that can take well over an hour each time I water. I don’t have any scientific reason for this. It’s not that I have some secret to greater tomato success through hand watering. The fact is, watering time is my down time, my “me time”, my don’t you dare bother me time. It’s just me alone with my thoughts holding the hose to give each plant it’s deep soaking. Somehow I think they appreciate the individual attention by getting their own dedicated drink of water.

Usually being outside in the garden allows me time to imagine, to create, to dream and on rare occasions to just think about nothing. But today, for some reason, the lyrics to a Tim MacGraw song kept playing through my head. “I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry”. That one line kept repeating and in fact, is still doing just that. So instead of my usual watering time thoughts of wonder and whimsy my head goes to a much heavier place. I think of the tears being shed for John Wooden – the athletes, friends and family shown on the television or broadcasting on the radio this weekend who mourn his loss. Some never even met the man and yet, they cry. Last week we witnessed the tears of a Major League Umpire shedding tears publicly over the erroneous call he made in that day’s game. And then, there are the quotes and interviews of the many people who are witnessing the devastation of the oil spilling into the ocean and onto our shores. Pelicans and fish drowning in oil and muck. It’s been a tough week. I don’t know why they say grown men don’t cry…

The soil beneath the tomatoes is saturated and as I look up I see two butterflies chasing each other in flight. Lizards scurry through the gardens, squirrels chatter in the trees and there’s an adult hawk flying above, teaching her youngster to fly. For a moment, I am transported back to my sanctuary. How lucky to have such a spot, even if it’s only for a moment.

Mid spring is the perfect time in the garden. All the seedlings have grown substantially. Tomato stems need to be gently tied to their stakes. The plants are brightened with scores of little yellow flowers soon to give life to red, orange, yellow, pink and purple orbs. Sweet peas and scarlet runner beans wind their way over and through the trellises, holding on and stretching further every day. Light pink and soft lavender fragrant flowers rise from the Sweet peas. Orange nasturtiums and purple columbine adorn their mounds of foliage ... The hollyhocks are eight feet tall with cupped flowers providing shelter for the sleeping bumble bees. Bearded irises in shades of purple, yellow and pink are every bit as glorious as a Van Gogh painting and the roses are in first bloom boasting huge, fragrant flowers in every color imaginable. This is garden perfection!

It was one of those rare moments when the entire family was out in the backyard together. Carefully we surveyed the growth and progress of each plant which just a month ago were small and delicate. Sampling a leaf of sorrel or beet greens we harvested artichokes for dinner. We made our way to "pepper city" - five pepper plants growing in containers and encircled with chicken wire to keep the Basset Hound at a distance.

My son, keeper of the peppers got to them first when he shouted "Oh, no! There's a giant grasshopper in my peppers!" He ran for the shears, known as the grasshopper getters in my family and I called for Hucksley, the Basset Hound. Hucksley has discovered that catching grasshoppers is almost as fun as taking large chomps of broccoli leaves and florets as he bounces by. The dog was busy chasing a lizard so the grasshopper getters where put to use. Snap! Got him right in the middle. Of course, we were all chuckling. Except for Andrew, who now was faced with wondering what to do with a grasshopper that he had captured mid body in the garden shears. We yelled "Take it to the trash can and chop it in half" which was more than Andrew could bear. He thought it would be much better to smash it on the back side of a shovel. We knew the armored creature wouldn't be destroyed so easily and sure enough it flew away. We all laughed as my son looked on, shocked that the grasshopper was still quite alive! Alas he had no choice but to grab the shears, recapture the prehistoric flying creature, dangle it over the trash can and snip, with half of the grasshopper still managing to escape. But, determination won out and amidst our laughter, the grasshopper getters, and Andrew did the job! We cheered as one less menacing grasshopper would reside in our garden. This was family life at it's best.

Just another day in paradise...