EDMOND — Paul Gains, a member of Edmond’s Challenged Pen writing group, which meets at my house twice a month, submitted the following response to the writing prompt “Vegetables.” I was intriqued with his writing and I’m sharing his story.

There’s a time of year when the wind starts to warm and daffodils poke through the still-cold Earth. This occurs simultaneously with a profusion of gardening shows designed to seduce the viewer into rushing out to buy seeds and small plants to bury in the ground.

It was such a day in February when I pulled my barn coat close against the wind and walked out to my garden site. The barren space lay there, weedless, seductively suggesting it would remain so. I’m too old and experienced to buy that image. Never again would I subject my back and arthritic hip to that. There would be no garden this year.

I’d turned to go back to the house when, out of a fairly clear sky, a bolt of lightning struck a nearby bush, which burst into flames.

“Gaines!” a booming voice called out. “Approach the bush. I don’t intend to shout. Now, what’s this nonsense about no garden?”

“Is that you, Lord?” I asked meekly.

The bush flared with each word: “Thunder? Lightning? Burning bush? Booming voice? Who else could it be?

“Gaines, you have given me little reason to put up with you all these years. One of the only — maybe the only — thing you’ve done to redeem yourself in my eyes is this pitiful little garden. Now you’re forsaking it. You are seriously close to damnation, Boy!”

“Lord,” I cried out, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just didn’t know you cared about the garden.”

“Well, you know now!” the Lord said, “so listen to me. I don’t intend to repeat myself.”

“Yes, Sir!” I said.

“I know you don’t want to plant potatoes again. I’ve seen you down on your knees digging them in the hot summer and I’ve seen you try to stand up afterward. It’s not a pretty sight. I can live with that. I also know my deer have become fond of feasting on your okra and beans, but that’s one of their few faults. The one thing I cannot abide is your callous attitude toward the tomato.”

“Tomato?” I asked.

“Yes, tomato. The king of all vegetables.”

“I’m not arguing, Lord, but some say it’s not even a vegetable, that it’s a fruit.”

“If I’d meant for the tomato to be a fruit I’d have put pits in it. You ever see a pit in a tomato?”

“No, Sir.”

“It’s a vegetable, then. I like them with lots of salt, but if you’ve got some young onions and fresh black-eyed peas and okra — fried, of course — that’s about as good as it gets down on Earth.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Lord.”

“Then this business about no garden won’t apply to tomatoes?”

No, Sir, I’ll plant them around the first week in May. You can count on it.”

“Good. You may have redeeming qualities after all. But I’d wait an extra week. I’ve got another freeze coming early in May.”

“Thanks, Lord.”

“Are we through here?” the Lord asked. “I’ve got a whole universe to see about.”

“Well, one thing, Lord, if you will, could you tell me what Heaven is like?”

“Everybody asks that,” he replied. “I’ll say this much: The weather’s warm, there’s not too much wind and it rains just enough. Bring your hoe. We can’t keep them in stock.”

“Oh, and one more thing, Lord. Before you go, could you do something about the bush? We’re in a burn ban area here.”

“No problem,” said the Lord. And it was so.



MARJORIE ANDERSON is an Edmond resident.