Written By Sammy Hutchison
Linwood was my father’s friend. He passed away when I was very young, but my memories of him have stayed with me all these years. I remember that Linwood was much older, in his 80s while my father was in his 40s. Despite the age gap, what bonded them was an undying fandom for Washington Redskins football. Both being season-ticket-holders, they would trek each Sunday with a group of fellow faithfuls for home games. Linwood even had an article written about him in the local paper: He had not missed a Redskins home game in about 30 years. In my mind, I see Linwood draped in burgundy and gold, making his way up to the stadium with my dad—but my favorite memories are of him working in the vegetable garden next to his house.
The garden took up his entire front yard, riding right up to the street’s edge. If it was summer and I was passing by his house, I could always count on seeing Linwood out tending to his vegetables. We lived in a small town, so everyone knew Linwood and worried for the old man working so tirelessly in the oppressive Virginia heat. But to Linwood, it wasn’t work—it was his passion. Having worked a nine-to-five job for most his life, he found joy in that garden. He enjoyed watching seedlings mature into plants, especially his tomatoes.
It is these tomatoes, “Linwood’s tomatoes,” that left an impression on me. I still remember the excitement in the house when Dad would show up with the first brown bag of the summer. It sounds kind of silly to think that there was actual excitement over a bag of tomatoes, but to taste a “Linwood tomato” was close to a religious experience. The skin was firm, but would give to the slightest piercing of a knife. The flesh delivered a sweet, feathery punch. We would put them in salads, sandwiches and sauces, or just eat them plain with some salt and pepper. The tomatoes were more than just great food—they were summer. And their real beauty came not from their taste, but from knowing how much hard work had gone into growing them. We felt closer to our food because we knew exactly where it had come from.
When we go to the supermarket now, we have little to no relationship with what we purchase. We are buying mangos from Puerto Rico and spinach from some far-away state. As summer nears and locally grown produce becomes more widely available, I encourage you to visit a local farm stand or farmers market. Shake the hands of the folks who helped grow the crops. Food is more than just nourishment—it is an experience, a partner. Do it for yourself. Do it for your family. Do it for Linwood.