Tin can formerly containing tweezers: Archival Material (20th century)
Aluminum, Dimensions 8.3 x 6.9 x 6.9 cm (3 1/4 x 2 11/16 x 2 11/16 in.)
Collection of Barnett and Annalee Newman - Estate of Annalee Newman -
The Barnett and Annalee Newman Foundation -
Harvard Art Museums/Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies,
Gift of the Barnett and Annalee Newman -
Exhibition History: Barnett Newman: The Late Work, Menil Collection, Houston,
03/27/2015 - 08/02/2015

"…still as fresh as they day they were preserved, Persevering."

Every Late Summer since we coupled, The Muse and I have practiced Persevering in the form of preserving. I suspect it was no accident that these two terms so closely resemble each other, for the purpose of our preserving has always been Persevering, for we are accomplishing more than merely "putting up" some produce. I always sense myself back in my mother's kitchen receiving instructions on how to slice a pear in half against my thumb—a task I'm still too squeamish to blithely perform, for I fear I'll cut myself, though I never have. The very act of attempting to Perservere preserves something in addition to the fresh produce we will consume through the upcoming winter. We preserve a seemingly fading lifestyle, a passing, nearly past imperative, one that sustained generations before ours. We ache to reprise this dance each year, and so we do.

It was always inconceivable for us to miss performing this sacrament. We even hauled our accumulated jars, lids, rings, and canning pots with us when we went on exile, where we found fresh sources of the same old produce. When exiled to DC, we'd drive up into Pennsylvania, Washington Boro in Amish Country, to buy tomatoes at the venerable old, tumble-down Tomato Barn, home to the locally famous Jet Star® variety. The Muse would select three or four boxes of their best, and we'd limp back to our rented digs to steam up the kitchen for the remainder of that weekend. When we resurrected the equipment and began blanching and peeling fruit, we were transported back home then, where our hearts still resided. Long hours slaving over sinks might have made our backs ache, but they made our homesick hearts soar. Those tomatoes reliably transported us home.

When we moved to Colorado, we found a produce vendor who drove to the Western Slope twice each week to bring the best produce from the country bordering the Nevada desert. He sold San Marzanos for about the price we'd paid for those Jet Stars, and I admit that we made pigs of ourselves with them. The Muse was so busy some years that I attempted solo performances. We were never disappointed with my results, but we missed the reconnection, fussing over canning reliably produced. Sure, we'd curse and fuss with the best of them, but by the end of those days we'd be feeling closer than we'd felt since the last harvest season when we'd volunteered to punish ourselves for the purpose of Perservering. Our larder groaned as we limped back home again.

If I was raised right, and I firmly believe I was, it was because I learned how to torture myself to gain some worthy end. I cannot stand for eight almost uninterrupted hours peeling and quartering tomatoes without my back aching. That ache becomes nearly excruciating near the long day's end, yet I persist. That persistence in pursuit of some far-distant result confirms that I must have been raised right. I know my forebears hoed much harder rows than I've ever faced, yet they persisted. They indentured themselves for years to gain the freedom they desired. They persisted across three thousand miles of primitive Oregon Trail. They cut the timber, fashioned boards, and built themselves crude cabins to house their families before winter set in, then split firewood enough to see them through until Spring. If they successfully accomplished those things, I figure I can probably tolerate a stiff back so we can enjoy a baked pasta supper in February next year.

The older I grow, the more imperative Perseverance seems. I dare not decline the sacred opportunity to U-Pick a ton of tomatoes or reject the invitation to spend a September weekend slaving over the stove. I do this in much more than mere remembrance. I perform this dance to reconfirm who I am, to prove to myself that I still exist. I find ever fewer conformations that I have not become utterly irrelevant. This sacrament reliably reminds me that I am still relevant, that I really used to be somebody, and that I might still be someone worthy of counting on. I wash the tomato jars sticky from the water they boiled in and set them into the boxes the jars came in. You might imagine that after so many years, we'd never need to purchase fresh jars, but we seem to add a couple of dozen each season. The larder's more than overflowing. I imagine my progeny will find, as I did in my folks' basement pantry, jars lined up for the better part of fifty years, holding summers we'd abandoned to outgrow our innocence, still as fresh as they day they were preserved, Persevering.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz