The Family Heirloom

The sun dips low as the cicadas bid farewell to summer in deafening hums of celebration. I sit on the front steps, elbows on my knees, and savor the first bite of my BLT. It’s a basic sandwich, I know, but it hits the spot with salty bacon, crisp lettuce and a thick slice of juicy, sweet tomato held together by bookends of soft, white bread. This particular tomato in my BLT is no ordinary garden variety fruit, but it’s a product of centuries of tenacity, creating a flavor profile that is as unique as my family, and I can’t help but reflect as I chew.

I come from a long line of farmers. From as far down as you can dig through the roots of my family tree, you’ll find generations of Collins kinsmen who knew how to work the rich soil and provide fresh food for their families. They weren't all farmers by trade, but my ancestors were experts at growing all kinds of fruits and vegetables from small seeds that they carefully planted each spring.

My grandpa Earl has a large garden in his backyard -- a patchwork of raised beds and walkways with neat rows of corn growing tall along the edges. He’ll farm until his body gives out and then he’ll sit in his lawn chair, gently instructing his grandchildren on how to properly add compost to the soil and showing us how to pick tomatoes at their blushing stage to prevent cracks in the fruit's soft flesh.

 My dad owns the local hardware store and my mom’s a kindergarten teacher, but each growing season, they stay true to the Collins name and sow colorful rows of peppers and tomatoes, pole beans and peas. 

Late in the wintertime, when the sun appears earlier each morning than the one before, we plant tiny seeds under grow lights indoors. Mom mists them before work each morning, and my little brother rushes inside after school to see if they’ve grown. As tiny seedlings emerge, they peek up from the soil and slowly stretch their faces toward the sun. When it’s was warm enough, Dad spends an afternoon transplanting the fragile plants into the ground, his knees and hands stained and smelling like the earth. My brothers and I check the tiny plants each evening, careful to give them enough -- but not too much -- water so they grow strong and healthy. Together, our family produces a small, but respectable harvest each year, and I never really thought about it much until Coop lost the family heirloom.

At the end of every growing season, mom spends an entire weekend in the kitchen, carefully preserving hundreds of cans of green beans, salsas, jellies, and jams. We stack them in neat rows on basement shelves and we grab them as needed throughout the year to complement a dinner or dish. Mom ties red bows on tiny jars of jelly for neighbors and bus drivers at Christmas time and we hang onions and garlic across the ceiling to use in chilis and stews year-round.

We grow all sorts of fruits and vegetables, and dad is always trying a new variety each year, but our garden is always stocked with plants that produce the famous Collins family tomatoes. These heirloom seeds have been passed down in our family for generations, and each ripe, red fruit is a testament to the tenacity of our ancestors. 

Each year, Dad proudly retells the story of John Collins, his great-great-and-then-some grandpa, who brought the Collins family tomato seeds along on a boat to America. As the story goes, those tomato plants were firmly rooted in American soil before our country had even gained its independence, and they’d been filling the bellies of Collins descendents ever since.

At the end of each growing season, Dad carefully dries out the seeds to use the next spring, just like his ancestors had done every year for centuries. He keeps them in a small envelope up high in his dark closet away from curious fingers and paws. Why we never considered the unnecessary risk this posed, I don’t know. But we certainly learned our lesson this summer.

This past March, on a chilly Saturday afternoon, Mom was gathering seeds and supplies to begin her spring planting routine. 

“Greg,” she asked, “Would you mind grabbing the Collins seeds from Dad’s closet?”

I stuffed my phone in my back pocket and ran upstairs to retrieve the envelope. After several minutes of shuffling around dusty books, hats, and cufflinks, I went back downstairs empty-handed. 

“It’s not there. Are you sure Dad didn’t already grab them?”

Mom tipped her head to the side, thinking, and then called out to him. “Hon, did you already grab the Collins seeds?” 

What followed was a frenzy of questions and borderline chaos, until we ultimately, and dejectedly solved the mystery.

Cooper, my seven-year-old brother, had taken the one-of-a-kind, invaluable, terribly protected family heirloom seeds to school in his coat pocket for show and tell. Unfortunately, the seeds didn’t make it back home and were forever lost.

Fortunately, Grandpa Earl kept a stash of the special heirloom seeds for his garden, so Dad gave him a quick call. As they spoke, Dad rubbed his forehead and eyebrows, then his jaw, and then he gave an enormous sigh. He hung up, and before he could speak, Cooper burst into tears.

“I didn’t mean to lose them. I’m sorry, Dad!” he exclaimed, his eyes filled with pain and a childlike fear that this would cause dad to disown or love him less.

Dad hugged him, chuckling under his breath. “Coop, it’s fine. I’m disappointed that you took them without asking. And I’m sad about the seeds. But they’re just seeds,” he said, shrugging. “Grandpa’s seeds got eaten by a mouse this winter and he was hoping to borrow some from us. I guess this is just where the Collins heirloom tomatoes die.” 

And that was that.

But it actually wasn’t at all. 

Three months later, we each handed Dad gifts that we’d obtained with whatever limited means we could as kids. “Happy Father’s Day,” I mumbled, handing over a bulky gift, wrapped in wrinkled, obviously reused paper that had “Happy birthday!” brightly written across it. He unwrapped the gift and laughed as he held up his new mug. “#1 Dad” he said, puffing up his chest and pretending to sip coffee from the empty cup.

“My turn!” Cooper yelled, running into the room with something behind his back. We all smiled, expecting a colorful handprint or other handmade gift. Beaming with pride, Cooper carefully put a small container on the table in front of Dad. It was a plastic cup, filled with dirt, a sturdy green stem in the center. Several sets of leaves were growing triumphantly from the plant, and two tiny blooms were beginning to form underneath.

Before Dad could speak, Cooper practically exploded, months of pent-up sentences and fragments flowing from his mouth, pride bubbling over as he enthusiastically gestured with his hands. “Remember those seeds I lost? Well, I was so sad about it -- and I checked my coat pockets and nothing was there. But one day, I was at recess and I was cold and I put my hands in my pockets like this --” He stuffed his hands on the sides of his belly, showing us how he’d done this, his eyebrows so high, they were almost to his hairline.

 “I felt a little pokey thing, and I grabbed it and pulled it out and it was one of your seeds! I was going to give it to you, but I thought ‘this would be the best surprise ever,” so I brought it home and planted it like Mom does and I sprayed it with water, and --” He threw both hands toward the plant, dramatically gesturing at his finished product -- the biggest secret his seven-year-old self had ever kept.

That afternoon, with the help of the newest Collins Farmer, Dad added his heirloom Collins family tomato plant to the family garden. And that’s how Cooper saved the family heirloom from extinction.

I catch myself smiling as I chew the last bite of my sandwich, the complex flavor profile filling my mouth with the perfect balance of sweet, savory, and saltiness. This ordinary fruit transformed into something special because it endured through centuries of suffering, joy, grit, and pain. I savor that final bite of juicy sweetness. That bite a bit like a prayer of thanksgiving to the people who have come before me, passing down their greatest assets so my life can be just a little sweeter.

I chuckle at my melodramatic reminiscing and spit on the ground to prove to myself that I’m not all soft. It really was a solid BLT though.