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Tim Oliver says:

It was 1967, or so, I was mowing a neighbor’s yard in the blistering heat of a July summer day. I kept one eye on a fence post, and the other on the mat of St. Augustine, festooned with discarded toys and piles of German Shepherd manure. The fence post soon sprouted a large, sweating glass of iced tea, and I decimated a whole platoon of green plastic Army soldiers. My younger brother, Kerry, sat underneath a nearby pine tree, glowering at me, waiting for use of the mower, to earn his own money. I shut off the mower, quaffed tea, expecting some smartass quip from Kerry, like, ‘Reckon we’ll live long enough for you to get this yard done?”, but, instead it was, “Momma bought some round bread.” Huh ? Round bread? I had to see this for myself, so, I finished the yard, and headed home. My Dad came home from work, for lunch, and stood over the sink, eating a fresh-picked tomato sandwich. It was on that perfectly round white bread , liberally sprinkled with salt and pepper, and loaded with Blue Plate mayonaise. It dripped from his hands, and bled down the sides of the white porcelin sink. Momma joined him as I slathered extra-sharp pimento cheese on that round bread, and didn’t understand their, obvious, rapture at eating tomato sandwiches, grown by their own sweat. I couldn’t savor that acidic, sweet, sun-filled taste, in a sandwich too messy to eat at the table. I sure am glad I ,finally, grew up.