Poems about Family I: Peeling Tomatoes
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I am originally from the Midwest, where lots of people have big gardens. When I was growing up, my parents were no exception. In fact, since we had such a big yard, we had one of the biggest and most prolific gardens in the neighborhood.
My mom, something of an anomaly, loved to can stuff. I can remember summers of just boiling pots of water that made the house hotter and more humid than it usually is in Nebraska! Summers of canned peaches, bread & butter pickes, jams & jellies. She just loved it.
And then there were the tomatoes.
One year there was a particularly bumper crop, and my sisters and I were recruited to help, which we did, set up on this old yellow diner table like something you see from the set of Madmen (my mom never got rid of things).
This is a true story, :), of my sisters and I gleefully making up horror stories during this chore we'd been stuck with. It was originally published in The Spoon River Poetry Review, and I somewhat invoke Anne Sexton:
Peeling Tomatoes Skins pull easy away from flesh plumped with pulp & juice like holding hearts in our hands the chipped enamel washtub running with blood. In the kitchen gunmetal castings of the table rock slightly (circa 1950) I explained it-- A tale of dark murders, beckoning both little sisters listen: See the yellow branch veins, the capillaries? the abundance of seeds how the meat comes apart? There was once an old woman who grew children in her backyard garden. Planted them as seedlings just like other vegetables. Watered them well so they grew strong with blushing skin and plump-curved cheeks faces peering cabbagelike over leaves Strung together like peas on a pod vine blooming, ripening in sun and glinting rain. Until they were to be picked. until the time for late-summer canning-- Then off came their heads with one fell swoop of a garden hoe. We peeled tomatoes, heaps of them that year until our hands were red. Until we could taste the juices, still warm.
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Comments
Oh, yeah, Pest. Minnesota, right? So you know what I'm talking about! :)
Yup! Grew up on a farm.
We do a little of that in Oklahoma as well, Gracias for the walk down memory lane.
TMG
My parents were basically descendent of farmers--we lived in town, but we always had this humongous garden that my sisters & I had to help with...lol Thanks for reading!
TMG- Thanks! Yes, believe I read how you grew up on some of your hubs. :)
Great story, poem. When I was a kid in Louisiana my friend and I would sneak into his neighbor's tomato garden with a salt shaker at night and eat his ripe tomatoes. i can almost taste them now. After eating our fill, sometimes we would to peep into the bedroom window of a beautiful teenage girl who lived next door to my friend. Her name was Eleanor, as I recall. Quite a beauty. I sometimes think of Eleanor when I eat a ripe tomato. Shades of Proust. However, I'm sure remembrance of tomatoes and Eleanor are far better than his madeleines. http://www.fisheaters.com/proust.html
Hi Lita! I got a notice you'd published a new hub. This is delightful. The imagery in your poem is just wonderful. Great bonding with your sister, eh? Pulpy thumbs up on this one!!! MM
Oh I love this. I love Anne Sexton--she is one of my favorite feminist poets--and this does invoke her work. You are so gifted. But you must know this. Thank you for sharing your work here at HP. It is so great to see poetry here.
I especially love the metaphor of the tomatoes as children and the final "off came their heads". It reminded me of something we did with dandelions as children--We'd hold a flower between thumb and forefinger and say in this singsongy way, "Sally had a baby and her head popped off!" Popping off the head of the flower as we got to the end. I wonder where we got that ditty? I've never seen it in verse.
Inevitably I would have little cuts on my fingers when "tomato time" came around for our family. I remember the sting of the first few peeled tomatoes, but the long ago memories are still fond ones of family at this time of season.
nice story, nice poems, nice all over! thanks for sharing :D
Hmmm, Ralph. That's quite a story, too! You should write that one. Madeleines, huh? Interesting. I will check that out.
MM--Thanks for stopping by to look at the pulp! Yeah, it's a strong memory. I wrote this about a year ago.
Pam--Yes, you struck me as someone who would know Anne Sexton. I identified with her, too. I can't remember off the top of my head at the moment, but her re-telling of fairy tales w/ a feminist perspective--but they were also sorta gothic, weren't they?
Pest--Yeah, they stung, didn't they? I actually didn't eat raw tomatoes as a kid--maybe because there were so so many, maybe because of the acidity. Its only now I can appreciate them, :).
Cris A--Thank you! For the artistic support. I'll have to be over to your hubs to read some of your poetry--don't think I have yet.
Lovely pulply swell of words made me feel the tomatoes in my hands. Children have a wonderful way of making stories and games to make the mundane seem so much more interesting, don't they? We used to say that tomatoes were the little brains of tiny people you had to smush before you could eat them. Maybe that's why I never liked them when I was a kid.
Teresa!! :) Thanks for visiting. At first I thought you said 'purply' swell of words and got a little bit afraid, even tho this one was already published, lol. Yeah, my sisters and I always had fun--I credit much of my imagination to the way we grew up, indeed.
Amazing and surreal
Thanks, Kushal. It's supposed to be that--somewhere between truth and a fairy tale--which it is!
This is so creative, Lita. Just discovered your hubs and this one was the first one I read. Really enjoyed it. Thanks
alek- Thank you. True story, lol, too. I remember the day this was inspired vividly. All that tomato juice! If you liked this poem, you would probably like Anne Sexton, too. She wrote a whole series of poems around fairy tales.
Pest says:
10 months ago
Wonderful! When i was little our family combined gardens and canned tomatoes! Thanks for bringing back those memories.