Things That Grow
Tales of a Tomato Girl
In the balmy summer of 1972, Charlotte Rose's garden was an explosion of colors and scents, tucked away in a small town that pulsated with the hopeful rhythms of the seventies. At 23, Charlotte, with hair that cascaded in loose curls and skirts that swirled around her bare feet, was the embodiment of the era’s free spirit.
Her garden was a carefully cultivated chaos, an array of tomato plants with fruit hanging like ruby jewels, strawberries peeking shyly from beneath their leafy veils, flowers bursting with life, and herbs that whispered secrets to the wind. It was here, amid the tangle of nature’s bounty, that Charlotte found her peace and purpose.
Robert, a man with eyes like the summer sky and a smile that could light the dark side of the moon, had stumbled upon this hidden paradise one day as he took a shortcut through the back lanes of the neighborhood. Drawn by the laughter and music floating through the air, he found Charlotte dancing among her plants, a watering can in one hand and a sunhat swinging from the other.
“Gardening in a dress, huh?” Robert quipped, “That seems a bit impractical. Doesn’t that kind of thing reinforce old stereotypes?”
Charlotte gave him a sharp side eye.
“Maybe for some, but for me, it’s about comfort and feeling good while doing something I love. The dress isn’t a weakness; it’s a choice. And it’s as strong as any.”
“Interesting perspective.” said Robert, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. So, you’re saying it’s more about personal expression?”
Charlotte gave a sly smile. “Exactly. It’s not about femininity being a weakness. It’s about expressing who I am and doing it my way. Strength isn’t just physical or what you wear; it’s in your actions and choices. I assure you, I grow more than… Manhood between my legs, as you can see from my garden.”
Robert gave a hearty laugh and smiled. “I see your point. It’s about breaking the mold in your own way. I respect that.”
From that day forth, Robert was enchanted. He began finding reasons to walk past her garden, each encounter with Charlotte leaving him more infatuated than the last. He was a man of the earth, working his family's farm just outside of town, but Charlotte's garden, her own patch of earth, seemed to him a portal to another world.
Charlotte, with her gentle ways and passion for all living things, welcomed Robert's company. They spent long afternoons among the tomatoes, which ripened under their care, and evenings tasting the sweetest strawberries under the stretch of a tangerine sky.
Their conversations were a blend of dreams and laughter, the kind that only summer and youth can brew. She taught him the names of her favorite flowers, and he shared tales of the far-off fields beyond the borders of her home.
But it wasn't just the garden they cultivated. As the days melted into a golden haze, so too did their affection for one another grow. Robert came to realize that Charlotte's spirit was as vibrant as the flora that surrounded her, and Charlotte found in Robert a steadfast presence, as comforting as the earth beneath her feet.
One day, as July bled into August, Robert arrived at the garden gate with a nervous energy. Charlotte noticed the subtle shift immediately, her green eyes reflecting an inquisitive light.
In his hand, he held a small pot, within it a single tomato plant, delicate but promising. "I thought," he began, his voice trailing off as he mustered his courage, "that maybe this could be our plant. Something that’s just ours, in your world."
Charlotte's heart hummed like the bees around her roses. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Robert's as she took the offering. "I would love that," she said, her voice as soft as the summer breeze.
And so, the tomato plant found its home among Charlotte's garden, a symbol of the love that had taken root in both of their hearts. As the plant flourished, so did their relationship, entwining like the vines that climbed the trellis Robert built for it.
Summer waned, but the warmth between Charlotte Rose and Robert never did. Through seasons and years, their love, like the garden, was tended with care, patience, and a joy for every new bloom.
