Now, I still enjoy looking through seed catalogs, (even though I don't really order anything anymore,) but when I was a child it was a big thrill for me. I'd take a pen or highlighter and rifle through the Gurney's catalog, circling odd and beautiful plants that interested me (and making mental notes about how I might be able to persuade Dad to order it). Each spring seemed full of opportunities to welcome new tasty friends into the garden. It is a hopeful time, when the sap starts rising and even non-gardeners feel that genetic pull to sow and scatter.
Today, spring brings a lot of stress my way. My freezer is just packed full of seeds, and they are special. They were gifts, trades, and attached to them are faces and places. They are more valuable than the sum of their yield, their taste, their genetic diversity, even their history. For me, they are a community touchstone, a locus of memories, a symbol of being connected to others, even in a terribly divided, narcissistic, and increasingly lonely era. They all deserve and need to be planted, but I am confronted by the reality that I only have a finite number of gardening seasons ahead of me in my life, with a finite number of gardens. Add to this, the fact that I am terrible at making decisions when I have a lot of choices to pick from. (Go with me to a restaurant sometime, and watch the dread descend on me if I'm handed a big menu full of "options.")
Today, spring brings a lot of stress my way. My freezer is just packed full of seeds, and they are special. They were gifts, trades, and attached to them are faces and places. They are more valuable than the sum of their yield, their taste, their genetic diversity, even their history. For me, they are a community touchstone, a locus of memories, a symbol of being connected to others, even in a terribly divided, narcissistic, and increasingly lonely era. They all deserve and need to be planted, but I am confronted by the reality that I only have a finite number of gardening seasons ahead of me in my life, with a finite number of gardens. Add to this, the fact that I am terrible at making decisions when I have a lot of choices to pick from. (Go with me to a restaurant sometime, and watch the dread descend on me if I'm handed a big menu full of "options.")
That brings me to my current dilemma, where I am trying to consider: how rare is this, how likely am I to be able to get more seed, if I only have a small amount of this rare seed should I plant it this year when I don't really have great garden access, how long has this seed been dormant, if I lend these seeds out to someone will they save the seed, will they be a good caretaker, will they understand how important these little things are to me personally?
I get caught up on that last one pretty hard. How could they know? They'd have to be me--sentimental, hoarding, me. I value friendship so much, and sometimes memories, stories, and those little seeds are all that I have left of someone special.
It's not fair to say that memories, stories, and seeds are all that's left of Randy Hooper. He is survived by his beautiful family and hundreds--probably thousands--of friends. My favorite place in the world, Bryson Farm Supply is still there in Sylva (my other favorite place in the world), with old hornets nests hanging from the ceiling, cats lounging on birdseed bags, old men loafing with hot coffee, and the beautiful old seeds that Armando, Kevin, and Randy valued.
Last night I pulled out a little pill-bag of tomato seeds labelled "Hooper Tomato '17." I thought about Randy and his seemingly endless supply of stories and jokes, and how he thought little Poodles were the best dog a man could own, and how he must have wore overalls every time I ever saw him. I also thought about how Sarah and I got about halfway to Sylva on I-40 before we realized we had the time wrong for his funeral (like hours wrong). I really wanted to be there, particularly to show my support and appreciation for Randy. I imagine it must have been just packed to the gills. Sarah and I probably would have had to look in the windows. Randy knew everybody, and importantly, everybody really respected him.
So, I'm going to plant some Hooper tomatoes this year. They're not an heirloom passed down in the Bryson family. The seeds came from a fruit stand up near Lake Glenville (if I remember right). But to me the important thing is that when I go to stick a little spindly tomato plant in the ground, I'll think about the good advice he gave me, about not putting the rootball of the plant too far down in the soil, and burying most of the stem on its side. I'll also remember his grin and quick wit. I'll remember fondly how he was shocked to find that I didn't know what a tomato biscuit was, and I'll also remember how delicious one of those things is when you use a big slice of a Hooper tomato on it.
Here's to the hope of a good year, good crops, and here's to the one and only Randy Hooper.
I get caught up on that last one pretty hard. How could they know? They'd have to be me--sentimental, hoarding, me. I value friendship so much, and sometimes memories, stories, and those little seeds are all that I have left of someone special.
It's not fair to say that memories, stories, and seeds are all that's left of Randy Hooper. He is survived by his beautiful family and hundreds--probably thousands--of friends. My favorite place in the world, Bryson Farm Supply is still there in Sylva (my other favorite place in the world), with old hornets nests hanging from the ceiling, cats lounging on birdseed bags, old men loafing with hot coffee, and the beautiful old seeds that Armando, Kevin, and Randy valued.
Last night I pulled out a little pill-bag of tomato seeds labelled "Hooper Tomato '17." I thought about Randy and his seemingly endless supply of stories and jokes, and how he thought little Poodles were the best dog a man could own, and how he must have wore overalls every time I ever saw him. I also thought about how Sarah and I got about halfway to Sylva on I-40 before we realized we had the time wrong for his funeral (like hours wrong). I really wanted to be there, particularly to show my support and appreciation for Randy. I imagine it must have been just packed to the gills. Sarah and I probably would have had to look in the windows. Randy knew everybody, and importantly, everybody really respected him.
So, I'm going to plant some Hooper tomatoes this year. They're not an heirloom passed down in the Bryson family. The seeds came from a fruit stand up near Lake Glenville (if I remember right). But to me the important thing is that when I go to stick a little spindly tomato plant in the ground, I'll think about the good advice he gave me, about not putting the rootball of the plant too far down in the soil, and burying most of the stem on its side. I'll also remember his grin and quick wit. I'll remember fondly how he was shocked to find that I didn't know what a tomato biscuit was, and I'll also remember how delicious one of those things is when you use a big slice of a Hooper tomato on it.
Here's to the hope of a good year, good crops, and here's to the one and only Randy Hooper.