Notes from public school - day 107

I’ve been thinking a lot about empathy today.

One of my students, Jamarion, put his arm around my shoulder in the lunch line.

“Are you okay, Mr. Barton? I want you to know I know how you feel. I lost my papa a few years ago. So I know.”

He hugged me and walked on with his tray of pepperoni pizza, mixed veggies and an orange to his seat at the table.

Wow.

A ten year old kid put himself into my shoes and walked around.

He walked with me.

Wow.

My teacher family on my hall - Allison, Emily, Pam and Tia - gave a variegated winter daphne and a hummingbird feeder to me, for the plant will bloom every winter in my fallow yard and the hummingbirds will bring color and wonder to my summer window.

Wow.

My friends put themselves into my shoes and walked around.

They walked with me.

Wow.

I wrote this little story in a larger piece about my grandpa that was published today.

Today, I am the small, broken, lowly tomato and the world around me is a world that cares.


The Tomato

I came across a tomato that was developing a dark, soft spot on it's skin.

This tomato was much smaller than the other tomatoes on the vine.

It was at the bottom and very nearly touched the ground.

“I'm gonna pick this one and throw it out,” I said to my grandpa. “It has blight on it.”

“Don't pick that tomato,” he said to me. “Listen, I want to teach you something about the world. Follow me.”

We walked out of the garden and into the work shed at the back of his yard.

That place was a place of wonder for me.

Inside of it were mason jars filled with nuts, bolts, screws and nails. There were all sorts of tools hanging on the walls. And at the center of it all were the things I will always remember him by - Duck Tape, baling wire, WD 40 and aloe.

Not only could these things fix the stalled engine of a tractor, or a sputtering faucet in a sink, or a dangling clothesline on a pole, but they could also create a basketball rim (he wove one out of baling wire and hung it above the door of the shed so I could practice free throws at his house), assuage arthritic knees (he used to spray WD 40 on his knees in the early morning to help him get around), and cure the common cold (he would drop a mixture of aloe and water into my nose to sooth my scratchy throat).

If you’re looking for a miracle, find a farmer with those things and you’ll find one.

“Hey,” he said, “That tomato is small, broken and at the bottom. But you know what? It could grow into something beautiful. Who knows? It might become the tastiest tomato we've ever grown. So let's be the ones who don't throw it out. Let's be the ones who take it in. Let's be the ones who care.”

He carefully cut out a square and two rectangles from some old plastic pieces he stored in the corner of the building. He bound them together with Duck Tape. He sprayed the edges with WD 40.

We made our way back to the garden and to the small, broken, lowly tomato.

He held the tomato in his calloused hands and ever so gently spread aloe over the blighted part.

Lovingly, he attached the handmade shelter around the tomato with baling wire.

“This’ll protect it from the heat of the sun and keep it off of the ground,” he said. “This’ll give it a chance to live.”

I did learn something about the world that day.

The small, the broken and the lowly have worth and beauty.

You can throw them away.

Or you can care for them.

That kind of care can mend a broken world.

For the tomato.

For me.

Thank you.