Season for Tomatoes: A Journey Story

By Robert Felde

Season for Tomatoes: A Journey Story tells the story of Elaine, a forced early retiree. Prompted by a missing neighbor girl, Elaine embarks on an ill-conceived, risky, and improbable quest-unwrapping layers of her malaise and a search for wholeness.

Tomatoes evokes the restless spirit of the movie Nomadland, w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meandered Stream Press
• Release date: Aug 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986526614

Book preview

Season for Tomatoes

Season for Tomatoes

Season for Tomatoes

A Journey Story

Robert Felde

Meandered Stream Press

Copyright © 2022 Robert Felde

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

Meandered Stream Press—Decorah, IA

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9865266-0-7

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9865266-1-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022912989

Title: Season for Tomatoes: A Journey Story

Author: Robert Felde

Digital distribution | 2022

Paperback | 2022

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

Original cover art by Bonnie Koloc

Contents

Also by Robert Felde

Acknowledgements

One A Change in the Weather

Two Packing

Three The Road Trip

Four Sunday Morning Coming Down

Five Breaking Amish/Breaking Elaine

Six Two Plain Girls

Seven The Helper

Eight Coyote Country

Nine Lucille

Ten Bill’s Motel and Banquet Facility

Eleven Honest Earl's Auto

Twelve Larry and The Looptown Motel

Thirteen The State Park

Fourteen Good Morning Sister

Fifteen Cottage Life

Sixteen A Visitor

Seventeen The Marsh

Discussion Questions

About the Author

Also by Robert Felde

Life at the Crossroads: Reflections from a Country Store

Death on the Dean's List

A special thank you for the friendship, encouragement, and critique from my writing group: Ed Brooks, Mary Lewis, and Mary Jane White. Thank you to my editor, Elisabeth Rosales; and to reviewers Steve Matter and Marty Steele (who happens to be my supportive spouse).

And thank you to all the inspiring people who on an everyday basis, and often in simple ways, impact positively on the lives of others.

Hospitality means primarily the creation of free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring others over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines.

Hospitality is not a subtle invitation to adore the lifestyle of the host, but the gift of a chance for the guest to find his or her own.

Henri J. M. Nouwen

Reaching Out: The Three Movements of Spiritual Life, 1975

One

A Change in the Weather

Faded blue and yellow plaid curtains partially draped the tomatoes in her kitchen window—rotting, beginning with small black specks that gave way to larger yellow dimples circled by brown moon-like rings. Some were self destructing from the inside, even as their deep red appearance gave the illusion they would last for another week. Elaine delayed eating them as if eating would bring to close the grand, full days of summer abundance when tossing a bruised fruit or two would have hardly been considered a loss.

She glanced from the tomatoes to her Abundant Manufacturing 20 Years coffee cup, and the three rings of stain on her Formica table top. She debated what to do. Was it Thursday or Wednesday? Snap out of it she said to herself. This confusing of days is reserved for nursing homes. It’s Thursday, of course it’s Thursday. Coffee, that’s it, coffee. I can go to the coffee shop and meet with the retiree group. They are always there on Thursday. And the doctor said that coffee is good for me—for all sorts of reasons.

The neck was frayed and the dark blue State College lettering well-faded on her grey sweatshirt. Though it was still her favorite she had recently given up wearing it in public. The decision to prevent further wear and tear left her prize apparel to be savored for special private times—there had been none lately. So she had put it on that morning in hopes of driving off some of the fall melancholy. Pulling it off as she moved toward her open closet, she wondered if she had anything that could fit in with the floral prints, pressed slacks, and artistic pendants of the coffee group.

Maybe it was just a bird shadow that flashed by her open window. Nevertheless, she thought she would pull down the shade. Besides, the open window didn't provide much fresh air for her small ranch house bedroom. If she had thought about it, all of her rooms had doors or entrances that were offset, much like her old office cubicles, void of visual contact or airflow from one box to another.

She knew the decision to put on her tan khaki slacks and a dark blue polo shirt had taken too long, and even reconsidered that decision—knowing it was boring and too gender-neutral for her coffee group. In reality, it was simply her go-to choice when she couldn't make up her mind.

She jumped when she heard the rapping on her front door. Maybe she should have gotten that doorbell fixed, but it was so rarely used that she had mostly forgotten about it. Rose, her 10 year old neighbor, was standing there with a handful of freshly cut flowers. She called them daisies. Elaine managed half a smile, knowing from her college horticulture classes that they were late blooming helenium autumnale. Here, mamma said you might like these, but she mostly wanted me to tell you that you should be careful. She said some bad things have been happening in the neighborhood. Well, got to go do my lessons. Bye.

Elaine’s flat thank you, as Rose had already turned away, was followed by a sigh. But she did like the flowers, and wondered what might have unfolded if she had not succumbed to the practicality of a computer science major. She needed to find a vessel and location for the gift. The tall blue unwashed Tupperware glass in the sink would do, and the helenium joined the tomatoes in the nearby window.

Rose was visible from the kitchen window as she walked back to her house. The Tupperware glass slipped in Elaine's hand as she recalled the image of her younger sister walking off to board the train—the sister she had loved, played, and shared stories with as they grew through grade school and junior high. But gradually, as Elaine entered high school, and then college, the relationship drifted. Estranged was too strong a word, although the separation felt that way when Margie departed for the Navy and was permanently stationed in Guam. It was nobody's fault, she thought, because nobody was angry.

Elaine's flash of guilt for the lackluster thank you to Rose came as a minor jolt. She didn't recall many recent emotions. Whatever, Rose deserved better. She had been a good neighbor to Elaine, like a butterfly making frequent non-obtrusive garden visits.

Stepping out onto her driveway, Elaine scuffed her sneakers over dandelions that crept through creases of the carport floor. It was still a functional shelter, but the rusted blue poles and faded metal roof would have looked more at home in the country protecting an old Oliver tractor. Admittedly, her aging Ford sedan looked at home. It had also faded, and its cracked vinyl seats with throw rug covers were of little concern to Elaine as she favorably noted that the odometer was gradually approaching the 60,000 milestone. With a few extra grinds of the engine, the battery held on just long enough to get the car started and on its way downtown.

Elaine took a deep breath as she opened the coffee shop door, and told herself that this would be a good opportunity to be social. Still, she thought that some of the group had mixed feelings about her. Not that she thought they disliked her, but once she overheard them talking about the company recognitions she had received during her working years—she only got that plaque because she never missed a day of work.

Volunteer work, church committees, grandkids. What did she have to share with this group? She was younger than all of them. Her dog had died six months ago, so there wasn’t more to share about that unless it accidentally fit into the weekly conversation about pets. She often excused herself to get a second cup of coffee or go to the restroom when they started talking about their husbands. She could have had one if she had said yes to the travel plans Frank had proposed. But she had said no. She told him her career might be just about to take on some more meaning. She couldn’t remember why she said that, but remembered it wasn’t quite true.

Hi Elaine, glad you could join us. Was there something about that welcome that suggested she was an outsider and not really one of the group?

Hi, how’s everyone doing? Silly me, I almost got confused on my days. Sorry I’m late.

Fall flowers, an impending frost, and the upcoming high school football game that featured several grandchildren of the coffee drinkers, occupied the conversation for most of the hour. Elaine had been quiet, her eyes catching a glimpse of some dark clouds that whisked by the windows. Although it was unusually warm, maybe snow was not so far off.

Elaine's neck snapped, as it had in church many years ago during monotone sermons, when Mildred addressed her, Say Elaine, did I hear something about some break-ins or burglaries up in your neighborhood? I didn’t hear anything on the radio, but they miss half the police reports anyway. My niece’s husband is on the police force and he had said something, but of course no details.

Uh, well, no. Well, I don’t know really. Maybe one of my neighbors said something, but I didn’t pay much attention. Elaine looked out the window again, but this time her eyes squinted and shifted back and forth before randomly focusing on a sign across the street. I think I need to be going, she said, addressing no one in particular.

Elaine wasn’t quite sure how she felt as she walked to the car. She didn’t think it was the coffee, but she felt something, a vagueness like her occasional coffee high—something unknown that nagged her. Then a question surfaced, and as it did, Elaine tilted her head sideways as if she was asking herself why it popped into her head. Never mind how it got there, maybe it was just silly anyway. And why should it matter to me that Rose was not in school today?

She drove past the small downtown shops to the edge of town where the larger lots had been gradually purchased from farms. Random city planning and expansion was apparent. Sidewalks were narrower, showing signs of neglect by both property owners and city officials. Elaine’s neighborhood expanded for about a mile, encompassing a few empty lots and a potpourri of homes with a mix of longevity, well maintained estates (although that was an exaggerated term), homes that were appealing because of their garden opportunities, and a few like Elaine’s home that, like the sidewalk, could have been tended to with more discipline but maintained just well enough to keep neighbors from complaining.

Half a mile from her house, Elaine’s Ford coughed twice and sputtered to a stop. It was a reflexive response to pull the car over to the grass and gravel roadside. She noted that it must have been a reflex because her memory of the Ford cough was, she thought, more of a reconstruction. She didn’t seem to recall the reality of the coughing moment, just the aftermath of sitting in the stalled car.

It would start again, after a rest.

Two

Packing

Elaine had been looking out her window, on and off, for several hours at the happenings next door. She didn't dismiss the activity as something unimportant, but assumed there was nothing for her to do about whatever it was. She hadn't been very communicative with the neighbors, except her interactions with Rose, so there was no inclination to intrude with questions.

The fall evening began to shroud her already dim living room. She went to the kitchen. Not really hungry, she managed to strip off two slices of lunch meat from a plastic container and place them on some slices of store bought bread. She recalled her grandmother’s term for the tasteless white sandwich bookends.

Then, for the second time that day, she was interrupted by rapping on her front door.

When the police officer handed her the Missing Child flyer, Elaine stared at the sheet of paper, almost failing to notice that it was a flyer about Rose until he began asking about anything she might know. Elaine paused at her failure to make the connection. Was she that clueless, or was there something else going on in her head? But then