Photos and text by Corey Amaro:
When my children were little, we had
a magical, organic, vegetable garden. We had tomatoes
until December,
green beans that made Jack-in-the-bean-stalk, look like
any
Tom-Dick-or-Harry-kind-of-ordinary-guy, and spinach
that made Popeye,
green with envy. Our garden was the talk of the neighborhood.
Our neighbor to the right, asked
the neighbor
to the left, "How does that American potato-head, produce such a
beautiful vegetable garden?"
The neighbor to the left said, "I heard she
doesn't use pesticides."
The neighbor across the street threw in, "I
heard she uses fresh cow pies?"
Mr. Porte, my elderly neighbor, my vegetable
gardener-mentor, swelled with pride at his student. I loved
that
our organic vegetable garden gave him an extra sparkle in his eye.
Mr. Porte gave me wise gardening tips: He told
me to put a piece of
copper wire in the base of my tomato plants, to prevent the tomatoes
from have a grayish-brown bottom, to water the garden only three times
a week, and to pick the snails off.
Bugs give
me the creeps.
______________________
After the last fig jam jar was
sealed I raised my gooey jam filled spoon and shouted out, "This is for
you Mr. Porte!"
You see Mr. Porte was my next door neighbor, the
incredible gardener, generous smile, nearly ninety year old man…
One day, (years ago) late afternoon he came to my house,
like he had done so many times before. I greeted him with the familiar French greeting
of two kisses, opening the front door wide I asked him to come
on in. As if he didn't know me he took two steps back, looking over his shoulder
towards his home, "I cannot," he whispered.
"Of course you
can!" I teased, pulling at his shirt sleeve, "What do you have something
urgent to do?" He cast his eyes down, shook his head, then again
stepped back. I swallowed my smile, leaned forward worried, afraid to
ask, "What's wrong?"
Mr. Porte blushed when he told
me that his wife was jealous of me.
"Me?! What! No? Why?" I
searched through the moments we had been together, was it because he
helped me in the garden?
He shook his head no, then shrugged, then
looked right at me with his sincere blue eyes, "She thinks we are
having an affair." As he said it in French, I did not grasp what
he meant, by the French word liaison or maybe because I didn't
believe my ears, I said "What?" He leaned his head towards me without
moving his feet, in barely a whisper translated, "My wife thinks we are
lovers, and forbids me to see you alone after this conversation."
"Me?
Us? Never again…" I glanced over to my neighbor's house, dumbfounded,
realizing this wasn't a joke, that his wife took his strong dirty hands
to mean something utterly different than working in the garden.
We stood by the garden gate… and
smiled a smile that speaks volumes when only silence is needed. He said,
"I know it is silly, I am sorry if I have embarrassed you, I am
embarrassed," then he shook his head, and under his breath I heard him
say, "As if you would have an affair with me! Aurevoir Corey." He turned
to walk away.
He was hurt. Our *gardening friendship was over.
I
spoke up, he turned around, "Mr. Porte, if you were a little younger
and if I were a little older… perhaps…" But before I could finish my
sentence we started to giggle, and with that the energy changed. We
knew we cared for each other and would remain friends at a distance.
We remained friends for 16 years.
Mr. Porte waved his hand at me, as he
slowly walked across the street to his house.
I stopped
gardening.
_________________________________________
Mr. Porte died today.
* The cherry tree, that I picked cherries from this year is the cherry jam I burnt. Doubly sad am I.
The fig tree is loaded, I have made jam from those two trees for fifteen years. The last jar of fig jam I opened two days ago…. it tastes more like love than anything I know.
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