We had just moved into our new house when a man approached my father from the yard next door. The man looked to be grandparent-like old.

“Hello, hello, are you just moving in?” 

My father reached out his hand, “Yes, we are. I’m Foster, and this is my son, Dave.”

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood. Just call me John. I rent a room in the house next door.”

“We better get back to unpacking.” Dad was busy. I guess he’d talk to this guy later. 

The next day, John approached me in the backyard.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, just throwing the ball in the air.”

“You want to see the world’s tallest tomato plant?”

I didn’t care, but I was bored. “Sure.”

“Let me show you.” I followed John to his garden in the backyard. It wasn’t a big garden; there were about five rows of stuff. The first row was his prize tomato plants. For tomato plants, they were pretty impressive. The plants were planted closely together, making a green leafy wall appear. Each one stood about eight feet tall; that’s what he told me. The shiny tomatoes looked like red ornaments on a Christmas tree. 

John reached up and pulled down one of those red beauties. He rubbed it gently and then inspected it.

 He handed it to me. 

“Take this to your mother and tell her it’s from me.”

“Ok.”

Mom was in the kitchen when I handed her the tomato.

“Where did you get this?”

“The guy next door gave it to me.”

“Oh,” said Mom, then she washed the tomato for a long time. 

“Tell John thanks.”

I ran back out to the garden where John was still working.

“Mom says thanks.”

“Let me show you something.”

John reached over me and positioned my hands together on the handle of the tool.

“Now, slap it down and drag it hard.”

I slapped the hoe down with all my might. I dragged the metal head through the crumbled dirt. I looked over at John. He was pleased.

“I learned all about farming and taking care of plants years ago. I did more than my share of work on farms in the West.”

“Why didn’t you stay a farmer?”

“No, I had other places and things to see. I guess the Lord wanted me to hit the road. Well, I better finish up here.”

John pulled the hoe out of my hand and returned to gardening. After he was done with the hoeing, he filled a bucket of water and carefully watered every plant.

“Watering plants and people’s souls, yes sir, that is what the Lord does daily.”

I got the part about the Lord watering people’s souls, but I know we didn’t get rain daily. I wasn’t going to argue with him. 

That evening after dinner, Mom, Dad, my sister, and I were watching TV in the living room when we heard a noise coming from the side of the house.

“What the hell is that!” asked Dad.

We all got up and went into the kitchen. Outside the kitchen door stood John, playing a harmonica and guitar. A twisted coat hanger held the harmonica close to his face, and a piece of twine around his shoulder kept his guitar in place. He wore a suit and had a tie stretching past his waist. 

Dad took a big breath and then opened the door.

“Well, hello there, John. We wondered what was going on out here.”

John continued playing as if he hadn’t heard my father. I guess he was wrapped up in the moment. We started to clap when we thought the song was over. He wasn’t finished. He went on for a few more minutes. Dad had that look on his face when he got angry. Finally, John completed his song and stepped into the kitchen.

“So, you look all dressed up. Were you at church tonight?” asked Dad.

“Yes, sir, I was. We had communion tonight and feet washing; praise the Lord.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, sir, our church believes in the washing of feet. Did you know Jesus washed the feet of the Disciples? Did you know that?”

“He didn’t do it all the time, did he?”   Dad was trying to be funny.

John looked a little confused at my father.” I don’t believe so… it was just before he was crucified.”

“Oh yeah, now I remember. Well, it looks like it’s time for these kids to go to bed,” said Dad as he opened the side door for John.

After John left, Dad told us not to go to the door if we heard John playing his guitar. He didn’t want to be cruel, but he didn’t want to encourage him to serenade us either.

The next day after school, as my sister and I walked through the backyard, John waved at us from his window. He seemed to be motioning to us to come to his door. I looked at my sister, and she nodded ok.

John opened the door.” Come on in, kids.”

We entered his apartment, just a room with a bed, stove, and sink. The place smelled like ointment, just like my grandparent’s home. 

John went over to the sink and picked up a bag. “I got some tomatoes and squash for your mother. Make sure you tell her where you got these from.”

A radio was on, and the volume was very loud. It sounded like it was a church station playing hymns. A song began, and it was something about Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. It sounded like a children’s choir singing. John started to sing along, then waved his arms like he was conducting an orchestra.

“You know Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, don’t you?”

We both nodded our heads yes.

“Have you ever ridden on a donkey?”

We shook our heads no.

John hunched over and interlocked his fingers.” Hop on, buddy!” I didn’t know what to do, so I threw my leg over his joined hands. With a tug, he started to bounce me up and down. He laughed, and so did I. After ten seconds of riding the donkey, my sister grabbed me by the shoulder.

“We got to get home.”

We hurried home. My sister told Mom about my donkey ride.

After that day, we rarely saw old John. Mom told me we shouldn’t bother him under any circumstances and to stay out of his apartment. I guess we weren’t going to get any more tomatoes from John.

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