TheBanyanTree: A TOMATO STORY

[smack58 at nycap.rr.com]

A TOMATO STORY 
My father liked
to teach his children...  

Don't talk with your mouth full.  
See the difference 
between the salad 
and the regular fork?  
Is that the right spoon 
for soup?  
Elbows off the table, please.  
Use your napkin. 
Eat everything on your plate.  
Don't you know
there are starving children 
that would love to have
a meal like this.
 
Late one summer 
in my seventh year 
several bushel baskets 
sat in the kitchen
ready for mother
to cook and clean
and store in quart jars.

My brother and sister and I
could hardly wait 
to get our customary treat 
of a fresh tomato 
with little Morton salt shakers.
We loved those little shakers 
as much as we loved
the tomatoes.

"Please, Daddy, please?
He smiled 
handing my younger, 
but bigger brother 
a huge ole' red one.  
He handed me 
and baby sister, Biz, 
two smaller ones.  

As the eldest, 
I whined my displeasure.
that brother got the biggest.
Daddy raised his brows 
and said, 
if you finish 
and think you can eat more, 
you may have another. 

I hurried
finishing mine first 
then rinsed the juices 
from my hands 
with the hose. 

I ran to get my second tomato.  
Daddy chose a small one.  
"Oh, no," I cried.  
"I want a big one 
like Patrick had."
I pointed to a huge one 
at the top of the basket.

Daddy warned me; 
my eyes were 
bigger than my stomach 
but I held my ground.  
Putting his hands 
on his hips
he glared down 
at my stubborn self. 
"Sharon, you better eat 
every damn bit of it.  
No coming in here 
and telling me 
you're full."  

I nodded a big nod 
and skipped outside, 
sticking my tongue out 
at my brother,
as I passed him. 
I grabbed my Morton shaker 
and off I went 
beneath the oak 
to eat my wonderful 
big tomato.

Half-way through 
I knew 
I'd bitten off more 
than I could chew.   
Daddy'd been right.  
What to do? 
What to do?  
I sat  thinking 
while pretending to eat.

Finally, 
I crept to the trash can
and lifting the lid
put my half eaten tomato inside.  
I hosed off my hands 
took my shaker 
back to the porch, 
and headed out to play.

As I squatted 
at the sandbox, 
thoughts lost 
in my digging 
and building, 
I felt a tap on my shoulder.  
Startled, I turned. 
My father crooked his finger at me. 

I followed him.
What had I done? 
Had I forgotten 
to do a chore,
had my mother called
and I hadn't heard her?  

Daddy walked 
to the garbage can.  
and lifted the lid 
I had lifted 
just a while before.  

Pointing 
to my half-eaten tomato 
he said one word, 
"Eat!"
I squiggled and squirmed.  
He glared and repeated 
his one word command.  
"Eat!"

Reluctantly, 
I reached in 
and took the tomato.  
"Can I get a Morton salt?"  
I asked trying to stall. 
Daddy reached 
into his pocket 
and handed me 
the one I'd left on the porch.

He covered the trash can. 
Crossed his arms.  
He was going to watch 
and make sure 
I ate every last bite....

and I did...
slowly and reluctantly,
but I finished.
I didn't bother with the salt.  

When I finished 
Daddy held out his hand 
for the salt shaker.  
"Now go wash 
your hands and face." 

My 'eye' appetite 
shrunk considerably
that afternoon
never to return.