As they walked through the grove of walnut trees towards the house, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that while from a distance, the house appeared white, but closer up, it was obvious parts of it had been added on from time to time, and it wasn’t all white.
The bug-eyed one explained the farm had first been settled in the spring of 1875, although the original part of the house dated from the 1890s, the settling family having lived in a couple of sod-houses until prosperity from raising pigs had enabled them to put up a wooden frame house.
“They had the best barn in the county by the end of that first year here, deluxe accommodations for pigs, state-of-the-art five-star quarters, better even than most hotels of the time, but until they were sure they were going to do okay raising pigs, they hesitated at putting up a real house.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer looked at him, puzzled.
“Well,†the wizened one explained, “you see, their lives depended on the pigs, and the pigs’ lives depended on having decent shelter, and so the pigs had to be taken care of first. They could’ve put up a fine house first, and then a barn later, but the pigs wouldn’t have done so well, and as their survival depended upon the pigs, they wouldn’t have made a go of it if they hadn’t taken care of the pigs first.
“As it was, they raised pigs here from 1875 until June 1950, the same day the Reds invaded free Korea, when the barn burned down—no pigs were lost, but the finest barn in the county went—and so they went into the cattle business after that, cattle needing no barns.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer decided that made sense, taking care of the pigs first, but really, she’d just as soon have a fine house first, letting the livestock fend for itself.
As they walked past the house, by the picnic tables underneath other trees, Mrs. Alfred Packer noticed that there seemed to be a cat looking out each window—and the house had lots of windows—on the alert, watching, as if standing sentinel. None of the cats moved; silhouetted against the black of the inside, they merely sat there motionless as Mrs. Alfred Packer, Wild Bill, and the bug-eyed one passed by.
“There they are,†the wizened one announced, pointing to a miniature Jungfrau-like mound about a city block, a city block and a half, away from the front door of the house. “The finest tomatoes one can ever hope to find.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill gasped.
Big red tomatoes, in both bushes and vines, ran rampant on the mound, probably tons of tomatoes.
Mrs. Alfred Packer had supposed they’d take six or half a dozen tomatoes, but suddenly she wanted more, and the more of them, the better. The bug-eyed one, sensing her need, went over to his truck and pulled out eight old-fashioned wooden two-and-a-half-bushel baskets, giving them to her.
“Pick away,†he said; “otherwise what isn’t taken, the boss is going to let rot back into the ground again, to rise up next spring…..just as they’ve been doing the past 135 years.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill filled the baskets, heaping full, while the wizened one stacked firewood to take to town. He explained this was a load for the convenience store in town, as he wrapped bundles of wood in something resembling Saran Wrap. The convenience store sold the bundles for five bucks apiece, of which he got three bucks—not a bad deal, considering his only cost was his labor in cutting it.
It was now getting dark, and the three of them sat at a picnic table under one of the trees, Mrs. Alfred Packer and Wild Bill sampling the tomatoes. Mrs. Alfred Packer dined on hers daintily, and was discouraged to watch Wild Bill wolf them down, red tomato juice dribbling down his chin.
Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed. She wished hippyhubby had better manners.
During their conversation, Wild Bill mentioned it was too bad the weekend was nearly over, as he and hippywife had to return to Oklahoma the next day. Deciding it not wise to reveal their business up on the roof of Nebraska, the pursuit of the Great Satan franksolich, he told the bug-eyed one they’d been up here before, and liked it, and so were still looking around, perhaps for a place to buy.
Then Mrs. Alfred Packer supposed the wizened one wouldn’t know what sort of tomatoes these were?
No, he replied; all he knew was that they were some sort of “heirloom†tomatoes, whatever those were, identified thusly by the broccoli-loving visitor from Maryland, who’d spent that summer here studying the soil and its components.
“You see,†the bug-eyed one explained, “the folks who lived here at the beginning fed the pigs tomatoes, some of whose seeds during the course of digestion never got digested, just passing through the stomach, the intestines, and the anal channel.
“And right in front of you,†he went on further, pointing, “is something the boss named for some New York Times best-selling author--is the biggest pile of antique pig shit between Massachusetts and California, 470 cubic yards of it, pure unadulterated decayed swine excrement, from which the finest tomatoes one can ever hope to see, spring.â€
Mrs. Alfred Packer choked.
to be continued