The cherry tomato plant.
My dad was a big, gruff guy to those who didn’t know him well. The captain of his hockey team, “The Labatt’s Blues”, back in the days when vice-makers could sponsor athletic clubs.
He stood 6’3″ at his prime – with natural and earned athletic abilities.
He taught me ‘fade-away-jumpers’ as he would call them. He taught me to practice with my left, or non-dominant side, at least twice as much as my right. His voice always boomed across the court or field when he knew I needed a boost of energy for my game – or maybe it was so he could chuckle at himself for standing out as the proudest parent in the crowd.
“Go McRae!” he would cheer – always using my middle name as my nickname. It was his mother’s maiden name. I wonder if when he said it, he felt closer to her.
When my parents separated, I was eleven. My dad moved into a townhouse complex near a golf course.
He had a very small ‘plot of land’ – well, a small dirt patch under his kitchen window and before his front stoop.
He created the most beautiful, bountiful vegetable garden. He had a least four types of cherry tomato plants growing up trellises, hanging down from baskets, overflowing like flavour-bursting waterfalls – boasting their bounty at any visitor.
His cherry tomatoes are, to this day – the sweetest, most delicious, pop of flavour yumminess – of any cherry tomatoes I’ve tasted.
where rivers are born 