When I was growing up, we moved a lot.
Minnesota, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Illinois, Florida.
All by the time I was almost 11 years old. Often more than one house per state.
I remember getting out of school one day in first grade and walking into a neighbor’s house, thinking I was home.
Then only thing I really believed about home was that it was temporary. I was never sure I fit in.
Oh, that, and the fact that my dad would always plant tomatoes. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic!
Growing tomatoes has been a bit more of a challenge in a 21st Century, Metro Atlanta suburb than I remember it being when I was a kid.
The sun is in my front yard. My back yard is difficult to access for one with my history of knee and back issues.
When I put raised beds out front — also known to some of you as horse troughs with holes drilled in the bottoms — the city administration informed me that I had “un-permitted lawn ornaments.”
We had some accessibility conversations and decided that the world would not come to a screeching halt if I grew veg in the front yard.
I didn’t actually plant tomatoes this year. The little guys in the picture are the last of the volunteers, triumphing in their own tiny way over heat and lack of water, and even over squirrels. They are, somehow, still home.
Thirteen years ago, my dad walked on to the new home where we couldn’t follow. I like to think that, if Heaven is remotely what it’s cracked up to be, there must be Liars’ Poker. And tomato plants.
These are for you, Great Grampie Harry.
I’ll try to plant some for real next year. But first collard greens.
And more Intentional Creativity home-work.