The Heirloom

Sam’s eyelids twitched frustratingly. It was almost impossible to keep his eyes closed, let alone his eyelids still.

Not long now, he thought to himself. Just keep quiet, don’t move, she’ll think you’re sick and asleep and won’t bother you.

It was the start of the summer holidays, the end of Year Eight, and Sam and his buddies were looking forward to weeks of glorious, uninterrupted gaming.

Sam had jumped up and down furiously for a whole minute before leaping into bed and under the covers, hoping it appeared he had a dreadfully high temperature.

“Sam!” Mum yelled from downstairs.

No response.

“SAM! This is the final straw!”

Mum’s footsteps thumped angrily up the stairs.

She was already pretty cross because he had stayed up until 2 am on a school night playing Black Ops with Fred and George.

The door burst open and in came Mum. He didn’t even need to look at her to tell she was Furious. And then, she used The Quiet Voice.

“Sam.” Her fury was passively terrifying. “If you don’t get out of bed right now, there are going to be Serious Consequences. We have to go shopping!”

Oh no! Sam genuinely began to perspire. Not shopping! He, Fred and George were going online in 15 minutes!

“I’m siiick!” Sam moaned, in his best sick voice. He threw in a sniff and a throaty cough for good measure.

“I’ve got a temperature!” Sam wailed. “Feel how hot my forehead is!”

Again, The Quiet Voice of Mum.

“ Sam. I’m going to count to 10. This is your last chance. One, two, three...”

No! I can’t possibly miss Black Ops! Sam let out an Oscar winning cough.

“ ......eight, nine, 10.”

And so it was that instead of weeks of glorious, uninterrupted gaming, Sam found himself with a new holiday plan: being driven by an unnervingly quiet Mum to stay for three weeks with his Uncle Foster.

Three weeks. With no iPhone, no computer and no Internet. As they drove, Sam silently grappled with the terrifying reality of his forthcoming online exile.

Mum Really Meant It This Time.

Uncle Foster lived three hours from the city on a vast country estate. Not, rather unfortunately for Sam, the kind of dashing estate you would imagine from some 19th century English novel. The old bluestone mansion, once the finest residence for miles, was looking decidedly worse for wear. His uncle was notoriously cantankerous, stubbornly resisting any conversion to modern technology or comforts. He was of wiry build and eccentric habit, his head crowned with a blizzard of white hair and beard. He spent the majority of his time obsessively curating, cultivating and documenting his prized collection of rare organic heirloom vegetables, which he then sold at exorbitant prices to ludicrously expensive organic food stores. Otherwise, the estate was an impenetrable tangle of neglected scrub, peppered with discreet pockets containing the lovingly cultivated produce of opportunistic local marijuana horticulturalists.

Sam had arrived around 11am. It was now midday and still there was no sign of Uncle Foster. He began to wonder if Mum had actually dumped him on purpose at a derelict, uninhabited estate. She had departed long ago, depositing him unceremoniously with his duffel bag at the entrance to the house’s front courtyard, then flooring the Prius down the long gravel driveway in a cloud of dust and indignation.

Sam flicked a few burrs from his Nike Air Max, then stood up, glancing towards the house. His chest suddenly tightened. Sitting quietly on the front porch watching him, was Uncle Foster. How long had he been there?

“Ahh, hello, Uncle Foster?” Sam’s voice hit a stunning high c, much to his embarrassment. Uncle Foster grunted and stood up. His hair and beard seemed to float around his head like a mass of white fairy floss.

“You look just like your mother. Can’t say that’s a good thing. Tough luck, old fruit. Now, Nephew, I’m a very busy man, so you will need to entertain yourself. You may have the run of the place. We dine each evening at seven. Don’t be late. Otherwise you can look after yourself. You should be quite capable of that at your age. However, most importantly, there are two rules. First. Do not touch my vegetables. Second. Do not, under any circumstances, touch the small black notebook in the library. There will always be food in the kitchen. Your room is at the end of the hall on the top floor. Tally-ho.”

And with that, Uncle Foster was gone, striding back toward the tiny bluestone cottage adjacent to the house.

Sam stared bleakly around at the endless green. Fields and fields of it, surrounded by neat hedgerows. No other signs of civilisation were anywhere to be seen. Definitely no computers or Internet. What on earth was he going to do? The next three weeks loomed before him, so unbelievably, unfathomably boring. He wondered what his mates were doing. “This sucks”. muttered Sam, kicking at the gravel.

Head down, he trudged towards the house. Maybe I can raid the fridge, he thought. At least I won’t get busted. Feeling slightly less glum, Sam picked up his pace. To his left, through the huge, dusty bay window he could just make out what looked like a library in the front room of the house. Mum had once said Uncle Foster’s enormous library was the envy of many, meticulously organised with volumes and volumes of books on all kinds of subject matter. Sam didn’t read much, reading was boring (gaming was sooo much better and having YouTube on at the same time was waaay more educational). Books are for Boomers, thought Sam.

As he got closer, a glowing inside caught his eye. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he rubbed the dust off the window and peered in. There, on a shelf by itself, bathed in a cone of golden light, was a small black notebook.

All thoughts of how utterly and cruelly deprived he was disappeared. Could that be the notebook Uncle Foster had said he couldn’t touch? Why don’t I just have a little peek? How is anyone going to know?

Don’t be daft, Sam thought, pulling away.

Slouching glumly through the front doors, Sam dropped his bag in the hall and searched around for the kitchen. Locating the fridge, he pulled open the huge double doors with a great sigh of anticipation for the sugary wonders within.

Inside lay a bunch of purple carrots, a giant hook-shaped pumpkin, an enormous box of lettuce in about 10 different colours and what looked like tomatoes, except they were ivory white. This really is hell, he thought, slamming the fridge shut.

Sam foraged around until he found some long, finger-shaped green grapes, a dark brown loaf of bread and some ghastly smelling cheese. Barely managing to swallow, he washed the lingering taste away with a huge glass of milk.

Sam exited through the back door and out of the kitchen, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. Once more, Sam wandered past the library, the golden glow again catching his eye. He stopped. Why should I be punished like this? He thought belligerently. Who would really know if I actually did touch that book? How much worse could the situation get?

And with a look over his shoulder to check for Uncle Foster, Sam hurried to the front door, quietly pulled off his shoes and crept as discreetly as he could into the library. He approached the book. It sat, cradled in a small black lacquered wooden stand, alone on its shelf under the golden light. Its perfect black leather cover looked smooth and expensive. Otherwise it had none of the features of a regular library book. No title, no author. No markings at all.

Sam’s imagination began to stir.

Maybe it contained some ancient spell. It was difficult to tell if the book was old or new. Maybe moving it would set off an alarm summoning a murderous Uncle Foster.

Sam reached out and gently lifted the book from its stand. He paused, holding his breath, expecting disaster. 1 second, 2 seconds, 3, 4....nothing.

Sam exhaled, tension dropping from his shoulders and laughed at himself. You idiot, he thought. It’s just a stupid book.

Shaking his head, Sam flipped the book from one hand to the other. The cover landed open in his left hand, revealing the first ivory page. There, in black ink, was written:

I told you not to open it.

Sam jumped back, dropping the book. He looked quickly around. Where was his uncle? How would he know? His fear screamed at him, RUN! Skidding down the hall, Sam lurched for the front door and bolted, hurling himself behind the nearest hedgerow.

What the heck??! Sam wrestled with reality, his mind racing. What did it mean? He was really in trouble now. Mum might confiscate his computer for the rest of the year. Help, no! he thought desperately.

The afternoon hours crawled agonisingly toward evening. Sam crouched miserably behind the hedgerow. Uncle Foster was nowhere to be seen. Sam’s feet were cramped and his stomach gurgled angrily.

Suddenly it dawned on him. Maybe Uncle Foster didn’t know yet! I’m such an idiot! He stood up. He had to get to the library, fast. Glancing quickly from left to right, Sam dashed to the front door and crept inside, pressing his back against the wall, trying to quiet his breath as he listened intently. Not a sound. Making his way to the library, Sam peered inside the doorway. He froze, heart pounding, staring at the table in the centre of the room. The small black notebook had been picked up and lay innocently on the table, its glossy black ribbon bookmark placed neatly down the centre, marking the two open pages. Sam walked slowly over to the book. There, once again, was written a message in the same handwriting.

NOW FIND THE OTHER ONE.

What on earth did THAT mean? His uncle was a proper looney. I guess it was good in a way, he thought, because it didn’t really sound like he was in trouble.

Looking around, Sam’s curiosity began to grow. The other one? Did he mean a book? Maybe….Sam looked back at the table. Did he mean another small black notebook? Sam began to cast his eyes around the bookshelves. There were so many books! Upon closer inspection, they seemed to be arranged in categories, alphabetically. Standing back, he searched the shelves for “A”. Running his fingers along the spine of each book, Sam began to walk through the categories, searching for anything that looked like a black notebook. A, B, C, D, E, F...His hand stopped. Under his fingers, a book caught his eye. Not the book itself, but the author. On the spine, in silver letters embossed into the smooth black leather, was written:

Professor Gerard Foster

The Heirloom

Bingo.

Sam carefully pulled the book from its place on the shelf.

Three pages were marked with a series of post it notes. Sam opened the book to the one labelled Read me first. And so Sam did.

The Mortgage Lifter

West Virginia, USA, 1929.

In Logan, West Virginia, lived a man named M.C. Byles. A rather clever chap, Byles had set up his garage just off the main road at the foot of the mountains. Being the main trade road over the mountain range, there was no shortage of trucks passing by. Unfortunately for the drivers of these trucks, the mountains were so steep their engines would frequently overheat going uphill, leaving them no option but to roll back down and into Byles’ conveniently located garage to be repaired.

Byles did a roaring trade. He was also an excellent gardener, devoting hours to developing new varieties of vegetables.

Then came The Great Depression. People were poor and desperate. When the trucks finally stopped coming, Byles turned his ingenuity to breeding an enormous tomato, big enough to feed a whole family. As word got out, people came from far and wide to buy his tomatoes. Being a good man, Byles would offer his seedlings instead, enabling desperate people to continue to feed their families during those wretched times. The seedlings were so popular, Byles was able to pay off a $6,000 house mortgage within a few short years. And so, this humble tomato that saved many a family from starvation, became fondly known as Radiator Charlie's Mortgage Lifter.

Sam raised his eyebrows. An interesting story about a vegetable? This is actually quite good! he thought, then pinched himself. Yoicks. I must be going crazy in all this fresh air.

Sam turned over to the next post it note.

The pictures were extraordinary, vivid and exquisitely detailed.

The Story of the Armenian Cucumber

Ottoman Empire, 1915

The world is on fire. World War One rages across Europe.

Terrible stories of trench warfare and shell shock are well known to us all. There is one story, however, that is not as well known. It is a grim tale, but out of tragedy, as sometimes happens, emerged something wonderful.

The Armenian Genocide was the systematic mass murder and ethnic cleansing by the Ottoman government of ethnic Armenians from Anatolia, in what is now northern Turkey. This slaughter was the worst genocide of the 20th century. Over 1 1/2 million Armenians died, many of them cast into huge mass graves where the bones still lie to this day.

Sam was gobsmacked. He had heard about the terrible fate of the Jews in World War II, but he had heard nothing of this. He read on.

A few brave Armenians escaped, leaving behind their homes, families and possessions, eventually making their way to America. Settling in the unwanted and largely barren land of the San Joaquin Valley in California, these refugees ended up changing the culinary course of an entire country.

Sam learned how these humble immigrants brought with them only one thing, their most prized possession: seeds.

It is remarkable that these unwanted people, in an unwanted land, were the beginning of what would become one of the most productive and famous agricultural regions in the world. One of the first and most famous varieties to be produced was what became known as the Armenian Cucumber, named after it’s long slender shape. The funny thing was, it wasn’t a cucumber at all. It was actually a melon.

The “cucumber” seeds took on a new meaning for this community in exile. Introduced by a people who had lost virtually every physical, tangible reminder of their society, this collective experience of so much loss, makes the Armenian culinary legacy and the story of The Armenian Cucumber so important to remember today.

For three weeks, Sam read about vegetables. At dinner, he and Uncle Foster would discuss the stories he had read that day. His uncle's depth of knowledge was extraordinary.

Then, suddenly, it was his last day at the estate. Sam had one remaining post it, labelled

Read me on the last day.

Sam turned to the final story.

Kentucky, USA, 1922

Viva Lindsey's Kentucky Heirloom

This is a tale from a simpler time.

What do we think of when imagine a wedding present today? An extensive registry at a posh department store? Exorbitantly priced glassware or cutlery?

Upon her death, friends of Viva Lindsey from Kentucky gifted her greatest treasure to their local historical garden centre: the seeds of an ivory white tomato. Given to Viva as a wedding present in 1922 by her fiancé‘s aunt, the seeds were always one of her most cherished gifts.

Named after Viva, this heirloom reminds us of a time when treasures were perhaps simpler things, belongings less numerous and disposable. Perhaps we should re-learn to cherish the gift of seeds, those wonderful, tiny parcels of new life, as much as we do the latest in phone technology or a pair of expensive trainers.

Sam sat, staring out at the green fields and clear sky, thinking over the stories he had read.

Then, from another slightly less indignant cloud of dust, Mum’s car appeared outside the courtyard gates. Taking one final look at The Heirloom, Sam placed the book carefully back on the shelf and rushed outside to hug Mum.

“Hi Mum. I’ve missed you.”

Mum hugged him back. “Wow, this is unexpected! I thought you’d be really cross with me! I missed you too, darling Sam.”

Uncle Foster appeared, walking towards him with something wrapped up under his arm. Giving mum a quick peck on the cheek and a wink, Uncle Foster handed the parcel to Sam. It was The Heirloom.

On the inside cover, written in Uncle Foster’s unmistakable scratchy handwriting, was a note.

Dear Sam. I was always going to give this to you. But, to understand it’s true value, I wanted you to find out for yourself how special the humble heirloom vegetable is, and what they can teach us. This is your Heirloom now. I know you will share these precious stories. Love, Uncle Foster.

Sam’s face flushed as he mumbled his thanks. He felt oddly emotional about leaving this house and his funny old uncle. He looked up into the old man’s soft brown eyes, thinking that he had never before noticed how they sparkled with intelligence and humour.

“Uncle Foster?” He asked. “Why the first small black notebook?”

“Now Sam,” Uncle Foster chuckled. “Do you honestly think you would have even opened a book about vegetables if I had just handed it to you?”

“Good point,” Sam admitted with a grin.

In the car, Mum looked closely at him, a small smile tickling the corner of her lip.

Sam ran his hand fondly over the smooth leather cover. Turning it over, he noticed an envelope had been pushed inside the back cover. Curious, Sam took it out and read the front.

Snibbet & Son, Official Valuers.

Inside was a small piece of white card. On it was neatly typed:

Original manuscript of “The Heirloom”, written by Professor Gerard Foster.

Official Valuation: $20,000

Verified by Mr. Alfred Snibbet

Senior Valuer

1st of July, 2019