Last night at supper, Hiram and I talked about the kids. Maybe the box of tomatoes and the five pumpkins on the counter led to the topic of last night’s supper conversation. After all, the vegetables were gifts from our kids: the tomatoes from Allen and the pumpkins from Anne. Or maybe we talked about them because, as every parent knows, once you have kids they are the focal point of most conversations, even after they are married and independent.
“Did Allen’s childhood give you any clue,” I ventured, “that he would become Pharmer Boy?”
Hiram thought for awhile. “Well, he liked his dog.” Then he thought some more. “No,” he said. “No.”
I stared at the vegetables on the counter. They stared back, patiently waiting to be processed and frozen. “And Anne,” I went on. “She always talked about gardening in the spring, but never carried through. And now look, she’s become Pharmer Girl. And they have pharmer spouses who want to grow their own organic food and live in the country.”
“They’re like a throw back to our parents’ generation,” Hiram said. “Can you imagine the conversations they could have if their grandpas were alive.”
I tried to imagine it. My dad shooting the breeze with Allen about which cattle were best for meat and dairy. My daughter picking apples in the orchard with Hiram’s dad, learning how to press cider and dry apples.
For a moment, I grieved the pleasure denied four people I love dearly. Then I went to the counter, picked up a paring knife and began peeling the tomatoes. The flesh was firm in my hands, succulent and rich as the memory of the two kind men who passed down their love of field and critter to our children.
Thank you, Dad.
Thank you, Dave.
You would be so proud of Pharmer Allen and Pharmer Anne.
