Tomato Farming

When I was in college I came home to the desert to take summer jobs. One summer my brother and I worked for a hydroponic farmer putting in tomato plants. Hydroponics is a style of farming that avoids the use of soil. The plants are situated in gravel or some such inert composite. Nutrient rich water would be washed through the roots of the plants several times a day. It was a way of farming that helped to avoid plant damage by disease and pests. If you've ever seen a tomato worm, you know how important it is to avoid them.

We started at the site just before sunrise every day, shoveling gravel, pushing wheelbarrows full of seedlings, tying up tiny tomato plants and other tedious and laborious jobs in the hundred-degree heat. Our supervisor on the job was an old farmer who wore overalls and a straw hat and was in the habit of sitting in the shade and pointing and shouting at his younger slaves. I'm not sure how we got the job. I must have unknowingly hurt the feelings of one of my friends who, for revenge, recommended me to farmer John.

I had worked at other summer jobs; lifeguard at a pool and lake, usher at a movie theater, supervisor for a recreation playground. But never anything as hot and difficult as hydroponic farming. That summer job became a touchstone for me. When later in life I fell into some work that I didn’t like, I could always say to myself: ‘at least it’s not hydroponic farming in hundred degree temperatures.’

Italy

In 1998 Tom and I took a trip to Italy. I had been diagnosed with MS the year before and we decided we had better travel sooner rather than later. We chose a bus tour of Italy with a company called Perillo and they put us on a bus with a driver named Stefano and a tour guide named Anna. On our flight to Rome we met a couple that, it turned out, were active in the PFLAG chapter in Portland, Maine, and they spotted us because we wore matching rings. So we had made friends on the tour even before the tour began: An auspicious beginning.

Our tour guide, Anna, talked about life in Italy as we drove along in the bus. She was married with a couple of little children and she had the Italian point of view on everything from frozen pizza to the Pope. She noted the Italian national car was the FIAT, which stood for: “Fix It Again Tony”. Two particularly memorable sights on our trip included Capri and the Amalfi Coast.

From Sorrento we took a boat to the island of Capri. We thought it would be a good idea to take the little funicula to the top of the island and then walk back down the hill, but we got a bit lost and missed the funicula station -so we ended up walking to the top. It was a lovely walk past walled private gardens with luscious lemon trees. When we got to the top we were hungry for lunch. So Tom went into a little neighborhood market and stood with a gaggle of Italian homemakers in front of the refrigerated case. It was an interesting sight, Tom was about 2 feet taller than all of these women who were dressed in black and speaking excitedly in Italian; but they kept careful track of who was to be served next. They all pushed him to the front of the group when it was his turn to order. It was like having a dozen Italian mamas taking care of him. For lunch we had some cheese and salami and fresh bread, it tasted like it had been imported from the Italian deli in heaven. We also sank our teeth into a couple of peaches that might have been picked from the gardens we walked by on our way up. We were amazed! The peaches were so succulent; the juice ran down our chins as we delighted in the flavor. The Ralph's grocery back home never carried peaches quite like these.

After Capri, Stefano drove our bus along the Amalfi coast. I don't know how that road is today, but then it would barely accommodate two passing vehicles. If the bus came upon a car wanting to go the opposite direction we both had to stop and pull the rearview mirrors in. Then creep by each other while all the passengers held their breath, looking down the cliff to the Aegean. The Cathedral of St. Andrew in Amalfi was beautiful resting in its stone niche above the sea but I think the real lesson of the trip was: be sure you’ve got a good bus driver.

Gratefully Yours

As 2011 begins, I find myself counting my blessings. It requires a lot of helping hands to keep me rolling along. My husband Tom prepares food for me, lifts me into and out of bed everyday, pays my bills, and does the thousand little things my hands can’t perform anymore. Our friend Duane gets me through the shower three times a week and shaves and dresses me. A fresh shave is something I took for granted for many years, but now I particularly appreciate how it helps me put my best face forward.

I go to a local hotel to get my haircut and a doorman at the front of the hotel always opens the door for me. I used to be a little embarrassed by that much attention, but now it's just about the only way I can get in.

I had some trouble with my computer last week so we called our friend Mike. It wasn't just that his hands were better with cables and keyboards, his expertise got me back and running in a couple of hours.

Last week while Tom was out of town, our friends Jim and Pat brought over a meal they had lovingly prepared themselves. Carl stayed with me all week to take over the responsibilities that Tom usually fulfills. Last month I was home alone during the day and I really wanted something to drink. I had a small bottle of cranberry juice but I couldn’t open it; my hands just weren’t strong enough. So I put the bottle in my lap and rolled to the elevator thinking I might find a friendly neighbor eventually. Before too long an electrician, repairing some lights in the hallway, came along and provided a helping hand. The list goes on… but you get the idea. Happy 2011, may you know even half the generosity that I do this year.