When my children were little, we had a magical, organic vegetable garden. We had tomatoes until December, green beans that made Jack-in-the-Bean-Stalk look like any Tom Dick or Harry kind of ordinary guy and spinach that made Popeye green with envy. Our garden was the talk of the neighborhood.
Our neighbor to the right asked the neighbor to the left, "How does that American produce such a beautiful vegetable garden?"
The neighbor to the left said, "I heard she doesn't use pesticides."
The neighbor across the street said, "I heard she uses fresh cow pies?"
Mr. Porte, my elderly neighbor, my vegetable gardener-mentor, swelled with pride at his student. I loved that our organic vegetable garden gave him an extra sparkle in his eye.
Mr. Porte gave me wise gardening tips: He told me to put a piece of copper wire in the base of my tomato plants to prevent the tomatoes from having a grayish-brown bottom, to water the garden only three times a week, and to pick the snails off.
Bugs give me the creeps.
After the last fig jam jar was sealed, I raised my gooey jam-filled spoon and shouted, "This is for you, Mr. Porte!"
You see, Mr. Porte was my next-door neighbor. He was an incredible gardener with a generous smile and was nearly ninety years old.
One day (years ago), he came to my house late in the afternoon, as he had done so many times before. I greeted him with the familiar French greeting of two kisses; opening the front door wide, I asked him to come on in. As if he didn't know me, he took two steps back, looking over his shoulder towards his home, "I cannot," he whispered.
"Of course you can!" I teased, pulling at his shirt sleeve. What do you have something urgent to do?" He cast his eyes down, shook his head, and stepped back again. I swallowed my smile and leaned forward, worried, afraid to ask, "What's wrong?"
Mr. Porte blushed when he told me his wife was jealous of me.
"Me?! What! No? Why?" I searched through our moments together. "Was it because you helped me in the garden?"
He shook his head no, then shrugged, then looked at me with his sincere blue eyes, "She thinks we are having an affair." As he said it in French, I did not grasp what he meant by the French word liaison, or maybe because I didn't believe my ears, I said, "What?" He leaned his head towards me without moving his feet, in barely a whisper, translated, "My wife thinks we are lovers and forbids me to see you alone after this conversation."
"Me? Us? Never again..." I glanced over to my neighbor's house, dumbfounded, realizing this wasn't a joke, that his wife took his beautiful hands to mean something utterly different than guiding me in my garden.
We stood by the garden gate and smiled, a smile that speaks volumes when only silence is needed. He said, "I know it is silly. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you. I am embarrassed." Then he shook his head, and under his breath, I heard him say, "As if you would have an affair with me! Aurevoir Corey." He turned to walk away.
He was hurt. Our gardening friendship was over.
I spoke up, and he turned around. "Mr. Porte, if you were a little younger and if I were a little older... perhaps..." But before I could finish my sentence, we started to giggle, and with that, the energy changed. We knew we cared for each other and would remain friends at a distance.
We remained friends for 16 years years.
Mr. Porte waved his hand at me as he slowly walked across the street to his house.
I stopped gardening.
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Mr. Porte died twelve years ago.
I remember the year after his death, I opened the last jar of fig jam (that I made every year from his fig tree). It tasted more like love than anything I knew.
I hold you in my fondest memories, Mr. Porte.
