Eat Your Heart Out, Tomato Growers

In my family it is a tradition that my Uncle Mike,

who is a grower-from-seed and

connoisseur of all things tomato,

donates several of his precious seedlings

to each family household in the spring.

And we all look forward to receiving our yearly gift.

Because as you know

there is nothing like picking a fresh sun ripened tomato

and eating it a few minutes later.

But life has a way of pulling the rug out from under you

 and last summer

when my father was dying

I didn't have the time or the heart to tend to my plants.

And leaving the North Pelham countryside and moving to the city

 after Dad died was hard in more ways than one.

I went from 10 acres of land to a few metres.

So this year I sadly declined my gift of tomato seedlings.

Where would I grow them?

I get very little sun here in the urban jungle,

only a few hours late in the afternoon.

But Uncle Mike,

who knows tomatoes like neurosurgeons know the brain,

or maybe better,

suggested that I take a few of his hardy Siberian tomatoes.

Not really expecting much I took them home

and slipped them into the strip of soil in front of my patio.

And as you can see in the picture above

THEY HAVE FLOWERS!

Sometimes you just gotta have faith.

And an Uncle Mike.

From her most excellent vanttage point

Flynn guards the tomato plants.

I think it's going to be a good summer after all.

***

A Tale of Two Families

My great-grandmother, Mary McKay

One day about one hundred years ago an impoverished peddler knocked on my great-grandmother, Mary McKay's door on Ormond Street in Thorold, Ontario.

The McKays were Scottish immigrants who had come to Canada to help build the Trans-Canada Railroad through northern Quebec.  When workers were needed in the Niagara region to work on the Welland Canal they left Quebec and moved to Thorold.

The peddler, Mr. S., was so poor that he kept all of his wares in one paper bag.

My great-grandmother bought a table cloth from that bag because as she told my aunt later,

 "I knew what it was like to have nothing."

She was his first customer.

Mr. S. eventually opened a successful furniture store on Front Street in Thorold and he and Mary McKay  were friends for the rest of their lives.

Mary McKay's grand-daughter, who is my 96 year old aunt, still has a trunk that she bought at his store.

The odd thing about the story is that I have, on occasion, met the great-grand-daughters of Mr. S. even though they grew up many miles away in Toronto.

By co-incidence they are cousins of one of my closest girlhood friends.

I didn't know about the old connection between our families until my friend's father passed away a few weeks ago.

I happened to mention to my aunt that I was going to a funeral and she recognized the name.

My friend asked me to write the story down so that she could send it to her cousins.

So here it is, Wendy - a  charming story, not important to the history of Canada maybe, but certainly one of a million strong threads that weave us all together.