My grandfather sowed so that others may reap
In his last few days on earth, my grandfather had a single request: plant my tomatoes. jiddoo, the lebanese Arabic word for “grandfather,” had famously kept a large garden for decades at his milton home. i once walked with wonder under the towering trellises of green beans and through the colorful stalks of Swiss chard. Any of jiddoo’s grandchildren has spent many hours learning about the best way to stake a tomato and gotten their hands dirty harvesting thyme or parsley for Sittee’s — grandma’s — summer salads.
Even into his late 90s, my spry grandfather, who died may 2, cultivated his garden. if you’ve driven through milton, odds are you saw him outside tending to his yard or the garden in his tidy blue button-up and khaki pants. Summer visits were punctuated by parting gifts of peppers and cucumbers; not just a nourishing sign of his love but an effort to stave off any waste from the sometimes too-fertile plot.
That very aversion to waste made his final request for tomatoes initially strike me as odd. A child of the great Depression, jiddoo didn’t waste even his coffee grounds — he used them as fertilizer. he cringed at the sight of a Dunkin’ cup. And now he was requesting tomatoes he must have known he would never taste?
but the truth is that jiddoo’s life was defined by sowing without the thought of reaping.
His aversion to waste led to prosperity but never opulence. jiddoo was a model of moderation, from the words he used to the resources he consumed. he listened before giving an opinion. he mended his clothes instead of buying new ones. he ate all his leftovers before visiting a restaurant. And he saved when blessed with excess.
Then he gave splendidly. he quietly donated much of his wealth to cancer research, to our church, to his favorite charities, to family members starting new lives. And to lovingly spoiling his late wife. he sowed so that others may reap.
And throughout his 99 years, he had never been honored for the lives he changed, the careers he quietly made, or, most of all, the love he modeled. No plaques, no signs, no articles (minus those i have penned despite his bashful resistance). And he wouldn’t have dreamed of it.
Even at the annual Veteran’s Day parade in milton, he declined to wear any hats or pins or his old uniform, which still fit the ever-slim nonagenarian. Nor would he stand when veterans were called to for recognition. he did this in honor of his friends from his hometown of Quincy who made the ultimate sacrifice in the Pacific while he used his engineering degree to honorably serve as a Naval engineer.
but in a couple months, if the rain is good and the rabbits are merciful, jiddoo will get the only recognition he’s ever wanted as his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren gather on the sunny deck overlooking his garden for a final taste of jiddoo’s tomatoes.