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Dalton
Roberts |
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My friends, one of the worst things that could have possibly happened to me has happened. Later in this column I will be asking you to do something to show your empathy and solidarity with me. No, l have not been asked by E-Cycle to deliver some packages to Nashville. As bad as that would be, what has hit me is a greater personal tragedy. No, I have not been asked by Mayor Littlefield to write him a speech explaining why he is putting three speed humps on a short street with a 25 MPH speed limit. That would require the resurrection of Shakespeare and Hemingway and I don’t think I could pull that off even with the help of Uncle Oral. No, I have not been asked by the city fathers and mothers to wash out the mouths of citizens caught in the downtown traffic gridlock the next time the boys in spandex gallantly pedal their little bicycles through our fair city. There is a better chance that I will be the first man in human history to jump off Lover’s Leap and fly across Chattanooga by simply flapping my arms. No, I have not been asked to talk Curtis Adams into running for county mayor. Nor have I been asked to sit down with him and Rhonda Thurman and talk them into giving each other a big hug. Any of these things would profoundly pain me but they are gentle taps on the forehead with a cotton ball compared to the excruciating news I must now deliver to you: I will not get to eat a single tomato sandwich this summer! How could such a thing happen to the man who has written so many columns extolling the glory of a big slab of tomato on two slices of white bread, lathered up real good with mayonnaise? If you can play bagpipes or fiddle a wail on a handsaw, please commence now while I explain. I take Dr. Sherry Roger’s newsletter and in one issue she flatly said that three out of four of her arthritis patients who stay away from nightshade vegetables experience a radical reduction in pain. Tomatoes and potatoes and my two main nightshade delicacies, so I quit them for three months. The dramatic relief I obtained from the disabling pain, stiffness and swelling in my joints convinced me completely to give them up permanently. Can you imagine how hard it is for me to even type that word “permanently?” That means I will never again feast in succulent splendor on a tomato sandwich. Can you imagine how hard it is for me to say “never”? I am sitting her quivering like a large plate of Jell-O as I write these ominous words. My tears are splashing all over the keyboard. I am emitting noises like a wounded animal deep in the woods at midnight. My neighbors are beating on the door asking if I’m alright and I am ashamed to let them in and see me in this condition. I am not embellishing my grief. I am grossly understating it. On a sadness scale of 1-10, I am a 27. So please do me a favor. When you spread that mayo over those slices of white bread, pretend you are spreading a blanket of comfort over this old Watering Trough boy’s broken heart. When you sprinkle salt on that red, gorgeous, juicy slice of tomato, whisper, “Dalton, this is for you.” Then eat that sucker! Would you mind writing me an email describing the kind of tomato it was and everyone who was there to enjoy it? Make me feel that I am there with you. Every time you run into me, no matter where it is or what I am doing, tell me how good it was. Even if I am conducting a wedding. Promise?
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