7 • GRATITUDE
MayOn Mother’s Day, in keeping with local tradition, we gave out tomato
plants. Elsewhere this may be the genteel fête of hothouse orchids, but
here the holiday’s most important botanical connection is with tomatoes.
Killing spring frosts may safely be presumed behind us, and it’s time to
get those plants into the garden.
We grow ours from seed, so it’s not just the nursery- standard Big Boys
for us; we raise more than a dozen different heirloom varieties. For our
next-door neighbor we picked out a narrow- leaved early bearer from the
former Soviet Union with the romantic name of “Silvery Fir Tree.” Carry-
ing the leggy, green- smelling plant, our family walked down the gravel
driveway to her house at the bottom of our hollow.
“Oh, well, goodness,” she said, taking the plant from us and admiring
it. “Well, look at that.”
Every region has its own language. In ours, it’s a strict rule that you
never say “Thank you” for a plant. I don’t know why. I was corrected many
times on this point, even scolded earnestly, before I learned. People have
shushed me as I started to utter the words; they put their hands over their
ears. “Why can’t I say thank you?” I’ve asked. It’s hard. Southern manners
are so thoroughly bred into my brain, accepting a gift without a thank- you
feels like walking away from changing a tire without washing my hands.
“Just don’t,” people insist. If you do say it, they vow, the plant will