During a virtual happy hour earlier this year, one more in a COVID year of socializing over the computer, friends and I discussed impending vaccinations. Several of us have received our first and are eagerly awaiting our second. One in our group, however, had yet to get an appointment and it weighed on him.
I could only speak to my experience in Alexandria, which involved pre-registration, then waiting not too many weeks before receiving the appointment email. A few more days of waiting, a quick trip into Old Town and my first shot in the arm was complete.
“Lucky,” our anxious friend said.
“Not so much luck, just following steps,” I responded.
“Maybe,” he continued. “What a year. No going out. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. And sadly, the awful deaths. Finally, vaccines are out there but I’m still waiting. There may be a light at the end of the tunnel, but what a tunnel. The end is so far away.”
He stared out from the computer expecting a response.
“Well,” I said. “It’s like those tomatoes.”
He didn’t get it, of course. Another friend spoke from the square just below his on my screen.
“Wait,” she asked me. “Is this another Nannie thing?”
“It is,” I confirmed.
My grandmother was a master gardener — not certifiably, but instinctually. Nannie used one green thumb in her flowerbeds and the other in a massive vegetable garden. It was no garden for the weak as it fed her and her children’s families. Any summer evening you might see some combination of aunts, uncles, and cousins pulling, picking and weeding somewhere along its lengthy rows.
One year, Nannie planted more tomatoes than usual. It was work enough to keep them picked on a good year, but that was a very good year. Somebody was going to have their work cut out for them.
“Somebody” that year was my cousin Jan and me.
I don’t recall volunteering, but we were on the front lines the morning Nannie called to say the first tomatoes were ripe. We walked casually toward the long rows, empty buckets swinging from our hands, not bothered in the least by a few silly tomatoes. This would be over soon.
“We’ll never finish,” I moaned several buckets into it.
Sweat dripped from Jan’s nose as she bent over to pick. She was handling this well. Then again, she always did love tomatoes.
“I hate tomatoes,” she said as she held her back to stand.
With so many rows, the picking would continue for weeks.
We weren’t alone, though. Nannie picked, too, and if she didn’t it was because she was shelling beans, pulling corn or canning one ripe thing or another. Weeks into the season and Nannie never slowed. Each morning she grabbed a bucket, hummed a favorite hymn and methodically walked down row after row.
Jan and I limped after her.
Each row was so long I believe green tomatoes at the other end ripened before I got to them. Jan and I whined about the long rows but Nannie never complained. How could she be so happy? How could she stay so happy during a time that seemed never-ending?
We asked her.
“Well,” Nannie said. “Sometimes you need to look at how far you’ve come, not how far you have to go.”
That was it?
She picked up two full buckets, hummed, and headed back to the house.
I looked at the quiet faces on my computer screen and wrapped up the story by saying while Jan and I continued to wish for an early frost, we did put Nannie’s advice to use that season. Our muscles stayed sore and our backs still cramped, but the burden seemed lighter by looking at how far we had come, not how far we had to go.
I didn’t think our friend got it, but he thanked me for the Nannie-ism and vowed to keep trying to get an appointment. Before signing off, we all made plans to get together online again the following week. That week passed quickly and as I logged on, the first face I saw was that of the victim of my storytelling.
“What’s the latest with your appointment?” I asked, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
I feared he would sink back into negativity. I knew he, like millions of us, was beyond frustrated and saddened by the past year. I didn’t think he’d gotten much out of my Nannie-ism, so I waited for him to vent, expecting his upset frown.
He smiled.
“I don’t have an appointment yet,” He said. “But soon, I’m sure.”
I nodded. “Sorry. It seems like the end will never get here.”
“What? Don’t you know?” he grinned again. “Sometimes you need to look at how far you’ve come, not how far you have to go.”
He got it.
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Sometimes, You Have to Look at How Far You’ve Come - Alexandria Living Magazine
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