Read by Patrick Hughes

WWhy was it so hard for that tomato plant to win my love? Allow me to peel back the layers of this garden tale. Picture a Southern gentleman torn between his devotion to sun-ripened tomatoes and his aversion to gardening. Grab a seat, dear reader, for a saga that involves tomatoes, hay bales, and a dash of marital misadventure.

Meet Diana, my energetic wife, fondly nicknamed “My Swarm of Bees” for reasons I assure you are both endearing and, at times, perplexing. Now, as much as I adore my wife, I must confess gardening isn’t my cup of sweet tea. My lineage traces back to a family of farmers, and I, too, dabbled in the 4-H club. However, after a showdown with a particularly ornery bull, I declared a resolute exit from farming—my calling lay in savoring the bounty, not cultivating it.

But, for the love I bear for my wife, I make exceptions. And so, the story of our garden begins—a tale of raised beds, hay bales, and the uphill journey of tomato plants.

One fine day, Diana decided our garden should reside in hay bales arranged with geometric precision. She bought 24 hay bales, and my journey began, uphill both ways. A conversation about optimal garden placement took place, with me cautiously suggesting a sunnier spot. Diana, seasoned in gardening wisdom, insisted on the chosen location. Spoiler alert: shady corners and wet hay bales ensued.

I offered to fetch the dirt, but Diana, with a discerning eye for bale density, insisted on personally selecting both hay and soil. Picture me, patiently stacking bags at the top of the hill, only to witness a rain-induced transformation from 50-pound bags to 80-pound monstrosities. How did she know it would rain? Psychic? Perhaps. Gardening wizard? Definitely not.

Fast-forward to the grand reveal, and the verdict was in—the garden needed relocation, halfway back up the hill. We exchanged words, polite words befitting a Southern gentleman (mostly). Halfway up the hill it went, and thus, our journey continued.

Hold on, dear reader; we’re nearing the climax. The garden’s debut was less than stellar—bug invasions and the aversion to pesticides led to a less-than-bountiful harvest. The neighbor’s bees, unbeknownst to us, had a different fate. Undeterred, Diana issued a decree for a relocation to the hill’s summit the following year. New hay bales, a dash of recycled dirt, and a pinch of hope later, the garden at the top of the hill flourished.

Tomatoes, resilient against rain and storms, emerged as the heroes of the season. Cherry tomatoes, sweet as candy, and sandwich tomatoes, robust and zesty, won over my heart. The effort suddenly seemed worthwhile. The tomato plants endured freezing rains and stood resilient against storms, producing a daily supply of sandwich tomatoes and a handful of cherry tomatoes. My grudging acknowledgment transformed into genuine love for those tomato plants.

In the end, the tomato plants conquered not just the garden but also my heart, turning a tale of hate into a love story seasoned with soil, sweat, and a generous sprinkle of Southern charm. ❖

 
About the Author: Clarence Boucher, a Master Teaching Artist, dedicates his talents to inclusive art programs for people with disabilities. His contributions have earned him recognition from organizations such as the South Carolina Arts Commission and the Virginia Commission for the Arts. Clarence’s personal work has been featured in numerous books, magazines, newspapers, and television programs, reflecting his commitment to artistic excellence.