I remember asking my dad why he never became a professional musician. My first memories include him at the piano playing an old song called Green Onions. Later, I’d notice that he often played piano at weddings and other social functions, sometimes at church, and still often at home. It stood to reason that if he liked something so much, he’d do it for a job, right?
Instead, my father got his DDS and spent his days hunched over peoples’ mouths.
Anyone who is acquainted with my father knows that he loves gardening.
I mean, really loves gardening. On clear days, he spends from sunrise to sunset (and sometimes longer) outdoors with his plants. My mom once told me that Dad views gardening as “communing with God.” I believe him, as my father’s tomatoes are renowned throughout our little section of Pleasant Grove. A neighbor, perhaps a Bro. S. Wadley, told my father last summer that people had started calling him “The Tomato King”.
Upon hearing this, my dad, looking up from his work long enough to acknowledge the man and wipe the sweat from his brow, merely shrugged and said, “Oh. I had no idea people took notice.” He gave a little laugh, shook his head and added, “I just like tomatoes.”
Young tomatoes in the greenhouse