Autobiographical Incident – Model
On this morning in August when I was 13, my other sent us out to pick tomatoes. Back in April I’d have killed for a fresh tomato, but in August they were no more rare or wonderful than rocks. So I picked one and threw it at a crab apple tree where it made a good splat, and then threw a tomato at my brother. He whipped one back at me. We ducked down by the vines, heaving tomatoes at each other. My sister, who was a good person, said, "you’re going to get it." She bent over and kept on picking.
What a target! She was 17, a girl with big hips, and bending over, she looked like the side of a barn.
I picked up a tomato so big it sat on the ground. It looked like it had sat there a week. The underside was brown, small white worms lived in it, and it was very juicy. I stood up and took aim, and went into the windup, when my mother called my name in a sharp voice. I had to decide quickly. I decided.
A rotten Big Boy hitting the target is a memorable sound, like a fat man doing a belly-flop. With a whoop and a yell the tomatoee – came after me faster than I knew she could run, and grabbed my shirt and was about to brain me when Mother called her name in a sharp voice. And my sister, who was a good person, obeyed and let go – and burst into tears. I guess she knew that the pleasure of obedience is pretty thin compared with the pleasure of hearing a rotten tomato hit someone in the rear end.
- From Lake Wobegon Days, Garrison Keillor, 1985 -