THE SMALL THINGS
DR AW
ING
BY L UCINDA JENNIN GS
Sometimes, You Have to Look at How Far You’ve Come BY STUART M. PERKINS
During a virtual happy hour earlier this year, one more in a COVID year of socializing over the computer, friends and I discussed impending vaccinations. Several of us have received our first and are eagerly awaiting our second. One in our group, however, had yet to get an appointment and it weighed on him. I could only speak to my experience in Alexandria, which involved pre-registration, then waiting not too many weeks before receiving the appointment email. A few more days of waiting, a quick trip into Old Town and my first shot in the arm was complete.
“Wait,” she asked me. “Is this another Nannie thing?” “It is,” I confirmed. My grandmother was a master gardener — not certifiably, but instinctually. Nannie used one green thumb in her flowerbeds and the other in a massive vegetable garden. It was no garden for the weak as it fed her and her children’s families. Any summer evening you might see some combination of aunts, uncles, and cousins pulling, picking and weeding somewhere along its lengthy rows.
“Lucky,” our anxious friend said.
One year, Nannie planted more tomatoes than usual. It was work enough to keep them picked on a good year, but that was a very good year. Somebody was going to have their work cut out for them.
“Not so much luck, just following steps,” I responded.
“Somebody” that year was my cousin Jan and me.
“Maybe,” he continued. “What a year. No going out. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. And sadly, the awful deaths. Finally, vaccines are out there but I’m still waiting. There may be a light at the end of the tunnel, but what a tunnel. The end is so far away.” He stared out from the computer expecting a response. “Well,” I said. “It’s like those tomatoes.” He didn’t get it, of course. Another friend spoke from the square just below his on my screen.
I don’t recall volunteering, but we were on the front lines the morning Nannie called to say the first tomatoes were ripe. We walked casually toward the long rows, empty buckets swinging from our hands, not bothered in the least by a few silly tomatoes. This would be over soon. “We’ll never finish,” I moaned several buckets into it. Sweat dripped from Jan’s nose as she bent over to pick. She was handling this well. Then again, she always did love tomatoes.
May / June 2021 • alexandrialivingmagazine.com
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