A Piedmont Porchlight Story

Every gardener knows about the last tomato. Not the first one. The first tomato gets all the attention. Folks brag about it. Take pictures of it. Argue over who picked the first ripe tomato of the year.

No, I’m talking about the last one. The one hanging all by itself after the vines have about decided they’ve done enough for one summer. Every year there’s one. Always green. Always stubborn. Always making you wonder if it’s ever going to make up its mind.

My daddy used to walk through the garden every evening about this time of year. Hands folded behind his back. Moving slow enough you’d think he was inspecting troops instead of tomato plants. He’d stop beside that last tomato, give it a little nod, and say, “Not yet.”

That was it. No poking. No pulling. No lectures. Just, “Not yet.”

As a boy, I couldn’t understand that. “It looks close enough,” I’d tell him. He’d grin. “So do you.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. Truth be told, I’m not certain I appreciated it until I had a few gray hairs of my own.

Funny thing about growing older. You begin understanding answers you weren’t old enough to hear the first time. That tomato taught me patience before I knew I was taking the lesson. You can’t hurry sweetness.

Pull it too soon, and all you’ve got is a hard green tomato. Now don’t misunderstand me. There’s nothing wrong with fried green tomatoes. I’m rather partial to them. But that’s not what this little fellow was trying to become. He was aiming higher. He wanted to be the kind you slice thick onto white bread with a little mayonnaise, salt, and black pepper. The kind that tastes like sunshine remembered all summer long.

That takes time. Life does, too. Seems like we’re always in a hurry these days. In a hurry to grow up. In a hurry to finish school. In a hurry to retire. In a hurry to get through Monday so we can complain about Tuesday. Maybe we’ve forgotten that some things refuse to bloom on our schedule.

Friendships. Trust. Forgiveness. Healing. Those are tomatoes you don’t pick early. Last week I wandered out behind the house with my coffee just after sunrise. There it was. One lonely tomato hanging on a vine that had nearly given up for the year. Everything around it looked tired. The leaves were curling. The mornings had turned cool. The crickets sounded different somehow.

Autumn was easing into the neighborhood. That tomato had finally started turning. Not all at once. Just a little blush of red on one side. I smiled. “There you are.” It wasn’t talking to me. It was simply becoming what it had been all along.

It just needed its own time to get there. Two mornings later, I picked it. Held it in my hand for a long minute before carrying it inside. There wasn’t another tomato anywhere in the garden. Just that one. I sliced it as carefully as though it were something precious.

Maybe it was. One slice landed on a piece of white bread spread with mayonnaise. Another found its way beside a plate of scrambled eggs. The rest I simply sprinkled with a little salt and pepper. No fancy recipe. A tomato that waits that long doesn’t need much help.

As I sat there eating, I found myself thinking about all the people in my life who’d ripened slowly. The shy boy who became a fine teacher. The widow who laughed again after believing she never would. The young couple who finally figured out marriage wasn’t about winning arguments. Even an old undertaker who spent half his life believing he was helping folks bury the dead before he realized he’d really been helping the living remember.

I reckon we’ve all been somebody’s last tomato now and then. Taking a little longer than expected. Needing another season. Another sunrise. Another chance. And thank the good Lord there are patient people who know enough to look at us, smile, and simply say, “Not yet.”

I’ve come to believe that’s one of the kindest things anyone can say. Not because it means you’re finished. Because it means someone still sees what you’re becoming. The garden’s about done for another year now. Soon I’ll pull the vines and turn the soil over for winter.

That’s the way seasons work. But before I do, I always take one last look around. Just to make sure there isn’t one more tomato hanging back there. Waiting for tomorrow.

Sometimes…

Tomorrow is exactly what it needed all along.