THIS IS WHAT A GOOD TOMATO CROP LOOKS LIKE!!!!!!

This article and picture is posted here for two reasons. It was written by my daughter when she was the Editorial/Creative Director for Chicken Soup for the Soul Magazine, published in its April 2005 addition, and is republished here with her permission. First of all it demonstrates what I consider to be an excellent tomato crop. She is standing on the scaffolding which is three feet from ground level. She is 5'4" and the plants have grown out of her reach. The second and obvious reason for this post is the extreme compliment my daughter paid to me by writing this article.

Stay tuned to more about this year's tomato patch. Getting the garden ready and planting will be next.

This is what a good crop looks like!


2003 Crop

A Bountiful Harvest
Stop and Smell the Tomatoes  
By Lansdale Franklin

I’m normally not a morning person, but there is an exception to this rule. From May to August, I wake up at the first chirp of the birds instead of hitting the snooze alarm, then finally stumbling to the kitchen for that first cup of coffee. And it’s all because of my obsession with tomatoes. But I’m not talking about the kind you find packaged in the little Styrofoam trays at the grocery. My fixation is for the real deal, grown in my backyard.

I’ve had a passion for this summer fruit as long as I can remember, but my total tomato fascination only started after I took a sabbatical and returned to my roots, so to speak. For six years, I lived what seemed the New York dream: great job, power lunches and financial success. But something was missing. I was homesick. So at 29 years old, I returned to Mississippi to be closer to my family.

It was not an easy transition. I was used to the anonymity of the big city. In Greenwood, everyone knew what I bought at the drug store before I made it back to my parents’ house just 10 minutes away.

Then summer came and I realized the move was exactly what I needed. Instead of starting my day with a 45-minute train ride, I joined my father every morning over a cup of coffee in the backyard to work in the famous “Franklin tomato patch.”

As a little girl, I would skip around the tomatoes each morning while Daddy checked every leaf of every plant, making sure they were dirt-free and had the perfect exposure to the sun — just as his mother and grandmother taught him. As I grew older, he put me to work. My first real job was pulling weeds, then gradually watering and fertilizing. I was proud of being able to help.

But somewhere along the line, I had forgotten about the simple pleasure of growing your own vegetables. Now, it all came rushing back. (After the caffeine took effect, of course.) This time, though, I was much more involved. My father sat in the white garden chair and explained what to do, passing down the knowledge of three generations. I dug holes, fertilized, planted the tomatoes and weeded.

As the summer heat increased and the plants grew taller, Daddy and I devised a system to keep our tomatoes reaching for the sky. We used metal fence posts and bamboo to tie and support each bloom. Once they were too tall to reach, we stole Mamma’s ladders and placed two-by-fours between the rungs to create our own version of walking the plank. I could now tie up all the plants without moving the ladder every few feet. (Please note, do not try this at home. I had the contusions to prove this was not the safest method.)

By the end of the season, our vines had grown more than 15-feet tall, and we had enough tomatoes to feed the whole town. In fact, everyone knew that if they were in need of a tomato for dinner that evening, all they had to do was come over and pick one or two or 10.

That summer, we literally grew hundreds of pounds of blue-ribbon worthy tomatoes. But that’s not what made me adore working in the garden. My bountiful harvest was the time I spent with my father, reconnecting in ways I didn’t believe were still possible. As we worked, Daddy would tell me stories about my grandmama, how he met my mother and what I was like as a child. Our relationship grew to a new level. We were now not only father and daughter but also friends.

Like all good things, our time in the tomato patch came to an end. As summer turned into fall, I realized it was time to return to the real world and get back to my career.

I now live two hours from my parents. And even though my life is incredibly busy, I still grow tomatoes. I find joy in getting up at 5:30 a.m. and checking on my own little crop –– knowing that Daddy is doing the same. I then call him on my way to work, and we compare notes. I’ve taken time to stop and smell the tomatoes, and my life is indeed richer for it.