NEWSLETTERS

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"If I's to change this life I lead
I'd be Johnny Tomato Seed
`Cause I know what this country needs
Homegrown tomatoes in every yard you see
When I die don't bury me
In a box in a cemetery
Out in the garden would be much better
I could be pushin' up homegrown tomatoes."

"Home Grown Tomatoes" — Guy Clark

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Greetings from San Marcos, Texas!
www.terrihendrix.com

Whew! Winter's gone and summer's here! And with it ... tomatoes. Well, that was until I squirted my plants with a spray to kill the fungus on their leaves. On the bottle, in big red letters, this spray touted "Gr-r-r-reat for tomatoes!" I should have asked the salesclerk, "Tomatoes with fungus?" Now, all of the little yellow buds from which my tomatoes were supposed to pop out of have turned brown, recoiling into their leaves in disgust. And out of the three "Big Boy" brand tomato plants I purchased, only two have a couple of small tomatoes. I must say, they look like my mutt Jessie's ... well, before he was neutered.

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Several years ago, while performing in Terlingua, Texas, at La Kiva (a cave-like restaurant that's built into the side of a creek), a leather-skinned local approached me after my gig and handed me a gift folded up in dirty paper towel. I thanked him, but before I could unwrap his present, he startled me by clamping my hands shut and firmly telling me, in a liquored breath whisper, to open it outside. Having grown curious, I stepped out onto the patio and into the cool desert night. The sun had just settled over the Chisos Mountains, a silver slice of moon was on the rise, and a soft breeze whistled through someone's wind chimes on a well-lit porch opposite the creek bank.

Alone, I delicately unraveled the paper towel and there in between the folds of my outstretched palms was a plant. A puckered-up plant. In a red Dixie cup. Now, how was I supposed to transport a plant safely back to San Marcos in my pick-up truck that had little if no air conditioning? I sighed, and with plant tucked under one arm, went back inside, visited with the remaining tourists, bid farewell to the local sheriff, got my food to go, grabbed my guitar, and finally made my way towards the front door. Once outside, I was greeted by a chorus of musicians all gathering for a late night jam. There amongst them was my newfound, plant-giving friend.

"Wha-ju think-uv mu-gift?" he asked eagerly, slurring his words. "I appreciate it, but I don't know what it is," I replied. "And how much water does it need?" He hooted out a scream in response, doubled over in laughter, and in doing so aroused the curiosity of all who'd gathered around my truck's headlights to get a glimpse of my plant. Suddenly, one of my long-time friends exclaimed, in an excited whisper, "It's Peyote!" "What's PEYOTE?" I happily hollered out, joyous that my little plant had garnered so much attention. He hurriedly shoved it back into my hands and said, "Shhhh ... it's a drug!" Having never embarked on that trail, my face turned hot and red. I got so scared (I had just moments before shaken hands with the sheriff!), I pitched my "plant" like a fast ball at the World Series into the bushes alongside the restaurant. With heart-in-throat, I then jumped in my truck, shouted a good-bye toward everyone's startled faces, and made a hasty exit out of the parking lot. As I drove away, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the whole lot of them, with butts in air, diving into the bushes after my "plant."

Okay, fast forward to last year. East of Interstate 37, on the dusty back roads nestled in between leaning telephone poles and out-of-business burger joints, there's a quirky, utterly cool station in Victoria, Texas called KTXN. I had just wrapped up a live on-air there in front of a studio audience, when a couple approached me and handed me a plant. In a red Dixie cup. Sensing deja-vu, I thanked them regardless. Once outside the building, Lloyd (having been told about my other "plant" episode) and myself set it on the ground and cautiously circled it. I picked it up. I sniffed it. I set it down and circled it some more. I finally decided that it didn't look like something we could do time for, so I convinced Lloyd to let me keep it. Once home, I forgot about it. That was until I noticed it had outgrown its Dixie cup and spilled out and over onto my window sill. I promptly decided this "it" was a "she" and named her "Victoria." I then replanted her in the only pot I had, which was way too big for her. But Victoria soon outgrew her spacious new digs and had to be replanted again. But when the time came to lift her out, the stubborn gal wouldn't budge, and her terra cotta residence was just too heavy to tip over. So ... I compromised and gave her a trim.

Upon returning from a lengthy tour, I discovered that in my absence, Victoria had wilted into a slimy brown puddle inside her pot. The haircut I'd given her, along with the heat, had killed her. I tried everything I could to bring her back to life, but Victoria was reduced to a mere hollow stalk in a matter of days. In her place, I reluctantly planted a cactus, and though I missed her, set my sights on growing "Big Boy" brand tomatoes.

A few weeks back, I was pulling some weeds from around my rose bushes when I noticed some green leaves shooting out of the cracks along my back porch. I stopped what I was doing, plucked them out of the concrete, and upon closer inspection, screeched in delight. Victoria was back! She had faced all odds: Almost being annihilated outside the KXTN studios before she was given a chance; the elements of winter and Texas summer heat; no home; no water; no soil; and a real bad hair cut. And yet, in spite of it all ... she had still grown. Right out of the concrete and into the sun.

If you're wondering what the moral of this story is, well, I'm still trying to figure that out for myself. I'm fairly certain it's got something to do with stubborn determination. You know — survival, the power of will ... all that kind of stuff. Maybe, if I reach hard enough, it somehow all goes back to the kids record I've been having so much fun working on — the one that's all about celebrating life and diversity (don't judge a plant by it's Dixie cup, etc.). Or ... maybe I'm just thinking out loud about whether I should try replanting my limp, not-so-big "Big Boy" tomato plants in one of the cracks in my back porch.

What I DO know, at long last, is exactly what Victoria, the miraculous mystery plant formerly known as "It," is: She's an Inspiration. In fact, as I write this, she's sitting right in front of me on my desk, looking real good — and still growing — in her new red Dixie cup.

 
Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix

(C)(P) THM Music April 2006

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