ORGANIC

In the late summer, when it was hot and muggy; when rain was a distant memory and did not appear to be in our future; when the top of my head barely reached my grandpa's belt; I'd walk along his garden with him.

I'd kick up dirt clods and not be bothered by the dust and grime that coated me.

We'd stop at the tomato plants and he'd pick two off the vines.

Plump and red. Small in his hand; big in mine.

He'd wipe them on his pant leg and hand me one. And we'd stand there in his garden, his pride and joy each year, and eat those juicy tomatoes, the juice dripping down my chin and mixing with the sweat and dirt that already covered my face.

I'd eat every bit of that tomato, wipe my hands on my shorts and walk on, stopping to "help" him examine his other plants.

I love fresh tomatoes.

I love that memory.

I don't know which is more delicious.


It is a memory matched only by the one where I am standing beneath our apple tree in the fall. We had three. Apple trees that is. And I'd stand there with my brothers and sister like four hungry birds as we watched Gradnpa reach up and pick an apple off a low limb.

Red. Green. Ripe or not. It didn't matter.

He'd wipe it on his pants, just like he did the tomatoes, and then he'd pull out his pocket knife and slice that apple for us, handing us the slices right off the blade.

One for you.
One for you.
One for you.
One for you.

Around he went until the apple was gone. Then he'd pick another one and start the circle again until his four little birds had their fill of apple slices straight off the blade of a pocket knife.

Organic eating at its finest.