I especially miss my grandpop in the summertime...

As a child, I would spend a lot of time in the summer at our grandparent's house in Mays Landing, NJ.  My grandfather was a farmer--just like his father had been. 

My great-grandfather, Jakob Mattle,  had been a farmer in Altstratton, Switzerland, and was determined to continue his profession in America. 

He stepped off the sea vessel, Krooner, onto Ellis Island in 1905.  With his wife and children in tow, he began searching for the perfect place to begin farming.  He ultimately purchased a number of parcels on Bear's Head Road, in Mays Landing, New Jersey.  With the help of his family, he began the task at hand--growing vegetables.

By the time I came into the picture, my great-grandfather Jakob had passed away, and the land parcels had been divided up amongst his children. 

My grandfather continued to work the fields, and he grew things like tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, stringbeans, peas, watermelon, cantaloupe and sugar-babies.
 
I can remember my grandpop saying that there was nothing like a Jersey tomato.  I had never heard the term "Jersey tomato" used as a commercial slogan like it is today, but it's really true. There really is nothing like them.


Maybe it was the fine, sand-like soil that was in such abundance in my grandfather's fields that made everything he grew so beautiful!

In the summertime, our mother would bring us up to their house to help.  She and my grandfather were like "peas and carrots".  (Whenever I hear the expression, "Daddy's little girl" I think of my mom and her father.)  Together, they were two of the sweetest souls you'd ever want to be around!

Anyway, the older kids would go out to the field to pick, and since I am a redhead and prone to resembling a beet after fifteen minutes in the sun,  I was often left behind to "clean" bushels of tomatoes with my two little brothers.

Our grandmother would sit us in a lawn chair with a bushel full of tomatoes on the left, and an empty bushel on the right.  We would pick up each tomato, gently wipe, or "clean" the dusty sand from the fields off the tomato with a  dry cloth (usually an old shirt of my pop's) and then replace it into the basket on the right.  This went on  until we had a nice, shiney bushel of tomatoes ready for my grandpop to take to the local farm markets. 

It was backbreaking, but I enjoyed it.  The quiet stillness of summer mixed with the constant chirp of the cycadas was relaxing to me.   Plus, I felt a sense of accomplishment when I finished--especially when my grandpop handed over a couple of bucks for our hard work! 




On the rare occasions, I was allowed to join the "big kids" picking in the field.  For a mid-morning snack, I can remember our grandpop letting us drop watermelons off the back of his old, flatbed truck.  They would break open when they hit the ground, and he would let us dig in with our bare hands!  I was sure none of my friends were allowed to do that...
Now, a grown-up might think that was a messy thing to do. But only a kid, (and a very wise grandfather with a heart full of fun, kindness and boundless love for his grandchildren) would understand how cool it was...I can tell you that thirty-plus years later, those memories are some of the most vibrant of our childhood. 

My grandpop died when I was fifteen.  His heart gave out while cutting down a tree in his backyard.

My sister now lives in the old homestead, so the house is still in the family, but sometimes it makes me sad when I look across the street into the empty fields...

In my mind, I can still see grandpop standing up and waving to me, wearing his worn, old canvas fishing hat, and a big, warm smile.

My own Jersey tomatoes in my little garden...

Fresh basil from my garden...ready to go to seed!