Judge Neal Lemery Publishes New Book

            

Neal Lemery, retired Tillamook County Justice of the Peace, has published a new book. Homegrown Tomatoes: Essays and Musings From My Garden explores mentoring youth through gardening and other teaching opportunities.

“Growing young people is much like tending a garden,” Lemery says. “We can all make a difference in the lives of young people, helping them grow strong and self-confident.”

Judge Lemery will read from his book and offer his book for sale at the Five Rivers Coffee Roasters author panel and book fair in Tillamook November 19 from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.  Homegrown Tomatoes is available on Amazon.com as an e-book and paperback.

 Lemery is the author of Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Mountains and is a volunteer mentor at the Tillamook campus of the Oregon Youth Authority. His book emphasizes community and enriching the lives of young men, by being present in their lives, and offering them support and emotional strength.

He offers us hope in troubled times, and helps answer the question: "What can I do to make a better world?"

“This new collection of short, powerful essays and poetry took me by surprise, nevertheless. I found myself moved to tears, uplifted, inspired, and even sometimes exalted as I read. I devoured HomegrownTomatoes in one sitting. These musings will inspire readers to look with new eyes at their own backyards and to dream of new ways to take action as peacemakers in our own communities.” says Rhonda Case, MA, Professor, College of the Redwoods.

A Sweet Review: Homegrown Tomatoes: Essays and Musings From My Garden

5.0 out of 5 stars

A Truly Transformative Book

By Rhonda on August 19, 2016

Format: Kindle Edition

Judge Lemery has written before about his work as mentor with young men incarcerated at the juvenile prison in the community where his family has been rooted for generations. I had previously read, appreciated, and recommended widely his "Mentoring Boys to Men: Climbing Their Own Mountains." 

This new collection of short, powerful essays and poetry took me by surprise, nevertheless. I found myself moved to tears, uplifted, inspired, and even sometimes exalted as I read. I devoured "Tomatoes" in one sitting. These musings will inspire readers to look with new eyes at their own backyards and to dream of new ways to take action as peacemakers in our own communities. 

Something of a soul brother to the philosopher, scientist, writer, gardener and mystic, Rudolf Steiner (founder of the Waldorf School movement and of biodynamic gardening) Lemery truly believes in the inherent goodness and limitless potential of each person he meets. He is certain of the value of education as key to unlocking that potential. He understands that Nature can be our wisest and most gentle teacher and healer. These things shine through from these pages even as they illumine the hearts and paths of the young men whom Lemery befriends. 

Lemery's essays, like the parables of Jesus, are grounded in the most "ordinary" of human experiences: observations of plants and of birds, simple gestures of kindness offered to those who have been left wounded on the margins of life, zen-like questions about what we truly value. 

The most powerful essays are those where Lemery lets us enter his "secret garden" at the OYA. We are privileged to be there with him as he cooks, gardens, plays cards, laughs and sometimes cries with --but most of all listens to -- these young men, some of them serving long years in prison for offenses committed as juveniles. 

We are allowed to share Lemery's sorrow at how much betrayal, neglect and suffering too many children endure. And then we discover with him that seeds of Hope are miraculously still present, even in the dark, cold winter soil of these lives -- just waiting for the warmth of kind attention and rays of compassion in order to grow and to reach for the Light. 

This book encourages us to remember that we can each create something beautiful, something that will nourish others and ourselves, through the work of our own hands, provided we value and sharpen our unique gifts that are our "garden tools."

Highly recommended for teens, teachers, counselors, parents, social workers, book groups...and, of course, gardeners!

Homegrown Tomatoes is available as an e-book from Amazon

Taking A Moment To Be Still

                                 Taking A Moment To Be Still

                                                               --by Neal Lemery

            It was unusual for me, just sitting there in my garden, being still and looking around.

            I’d had a long session with the trowel, the weed eater, and my hand pruners, attacking the weeds, setting out some plants, and generally tidying up my shade garden. Sweaty, dirty and tired, I found a chair and a bottle of water and decided to catch my breath.

            At first, I looked at what I’d done, and what I needed to do, mentally composing additions to my “to do” list. 

            This is becoming a job, I thought.  Gardening is a lot of work, and I’d tired.

            Maybe I should just take a moment and enjoy all of this, my own quiet corner of the world. I could let the sweat dry, thinking its OK that I just take a break.

            Lately, when I’ve been reading about gardening, I’m nose deep into the science and the methodologies about how to grow the best of whatever is involved in my latest garden project. 

In the midst of research on an interesting new plant, I’d come across a quote about gardening and my soul. 

“It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

― Ray Bradbury

            Take a moment, take a breath, and enjoy the garden for what it is, I reminded myself.  Too often, my time here becomes an obligation, a project.  Hurry up, get it done, and move on to the next task.

            But, I am a gardener, not a laborer.  Gardening really is nurturing, and being IN the garden.  It is a time to nurture this place and my soul, to find peace, to let my mind be still and just BE.  After all, I am a human being, not a human doing. 

            And, so I became still, and sat there.  A swallow was building a nest in the new birdhouse, a hummingbird was enjoying the honeysuckle in bloom, sunlight played on the rhododendron bursting out in full glory.  I breathed in the fresh air, and all the smells of spring. 

            In the distance, a neighbor was mowing her lawn, and a farmer was tilling his field.  Off in the forest, a logger’s chainsaw provided the bass line for the house finch’s serenade in the snowball bush. 

            The real beauty in the garden, I realized, was not all the work I’d done, though I certainly had provided some tidying up and structure to this little piece of paradise.  But, I realized, the real joy in this place is all the creatures and plants that make this their home. 

            I’m only the host, and I only add a few of the finishing touches. 

            And, I realized, the most important part of my job here, as a gardener, is to sit in a chair, and just be here, finding my own peace, and be part of this magnificent paradise, to simply be in this moment.

            5/16/16

Gathering At The Tree Stump

He knelt down by the fresh stump, his finger counting the rings.  

“Thirty seven,” he said.  

The group of young men talked about the tree that had stood in the small grove of pine trees in the prison yard. I asked them to look at the tree stump, and the story it told about the life of the tree, planted when this youth correctional camp first began, the tree a witness for all the young lives that had been transformed here. 

They were astonished that tree trunks had rings, that the rings could tell the story of the tree, of winters and summers, good years, and lean, of the fertility of the soil, the amount of rain.  Other young men reached out, too, touching the rough wood cut by the chainsaw, feeling the sawdust, the ooze of the pine pitch.  

“Smell it, taste it if you want,” I said.  “You can taste the freshness of pine.”

Only one man was brave enough to take me up on my offer, touching his finger to the fresh gob of pine pitch, his eyes widening when his tongue confirmed my opinion.

“This is where turpentine comes from,” I said.  

His puzzled look told me he had no idea what I was talking about.  

“Turpentine.  Paint thinner.  It comes from pine trees.”

He nodded, taking in the new concept, gaining a new appreciation of the trees.  Until now they just offered shade, where young men could gather for a conversation, maybe a visit with family on a sunny day.  Three times a day, on the way to chow, they passed by these trees. 

These trees were just familiar things, ordinary pine trees, until we stopped to count the rings and stick fingers into pine tar.  

We talked about the pine tree’s story, how it had thrived its first five years. Then, the other trees started to shade it and compete for nutrients.  We looked, seeing how the growth slowed, the rings tight in its final years.  History was being told in a new way.  

We had spent the morning talking about plants and gardening, how to think about designing a place of beauty in the world, a place of quiet and growth, places of new beginnings.  Their questions of their teachers showed their eagerness to learn new ways of nurturing a garden, to make something more beautiful through their work.  

In the greenhouse, they had repotted young seedlings, making way for tender young roots to grow bigger, helping the coming summer’s vegetable garden prosper by their early spring work on the  potting bench.  

With cut down cardboard boxes and potting soil, and bits of plants cut from the teacher’s garden, they fashioned their visions of what their own gardens and yards would be.  Pebbles and colored stones became rock walls and paths, and tiny paper cups were ponds and pools. Their dreams came to life. Proudly, they showed the rest of us how they wanted their homes would be, how they would bring beauty and nature into their lives.

While we made labels for seedlings, and chose the plants that needed repotting, several young men and I talked about our own lives and why we were gardeners, how that job fit into our lives, of pruning and weeding, and choosing the right soil and fertilizer for our journeys.  

Looking at the stumps and the remaining trees, we talked about the planters of the trees, what they envisioned, how they planted the trees, what they wanted to accomplish.  We talked about why we plant trees, and how we care for them.

When someone mentioned nurturing young lives, the young men silently nodded.

As rain moved in, we left the pine tree stump, and the rest of the pines, having new answers for how the trees came to be there in the prison yard, and how the remaining trees were going to grow.  One man turned back, looking at the stump, his hand rising to his mouth for one more taste of the pine.

He smiled, and stood just a little taller.  

4/4/15

Apples and Young Men

I was there to teach, to demonstrate how to care for apple trees, getting them ready for a season of growth, of new fruit.  The young men gathered around me, curious about the sprayer I had brought, my long plastic gloves, my eye goggles.  

Usually when I come to the youth prison, I bring coffee and food, and visit with one of two young men, listening to their stories, giving them a bit of direction and encouragement, trying to help them move on with their lives.  Sometimes, I bring my guitar or a book.  Sometimes, I bring my drum and listen to their worries and hope in a drumming circle, connecting with them in a deep, intimate way, the drum beats opening all of us up to our spiritual paths.  

Today, though, I am the gardener, and so are they.  They gather around a big work table in their greenhouse, all the shelves and plant tables filled to the brim with trays of their seedlings and cuttings.  Eagerly, they show me what they’ve done, what they’ve planted, techniques they’ve learned to bring forth new life.

The chickens they’ve raised from eggs are now about to lay their own eggs.  They tell me the stories of each of the hens, and how they’ve grown.  The chickens are now a big part of their garden, eating scraps of lettuce, decimating slugs, and adding their nutrients back into the garden soil.  

The circle of life is vibrant here, everyone involved in the daily routine of new life, hands on experiences with dirt, manure, sunlight, new plants, harvest, decay, renewal.  

Their lives, too, nourished, weeded, fertilized, pruned and guided into healthy new growth, strengthened by the sunlight they are now letting into their lives, becoming strong, healthy men.  I see smiles and bright eyes, as they tell me about their plants, their chickens, this place in the world they have made their own, a place of beauty and growth, of new life.

I talk about apples, how humans have tended them for thousands of years, continually improving them, new varieties, new techniques.  There are stories of grafting, pruning, thinning, making living things thrive because of a person taking a little time to care.  

I talk about disease and blight, of the need to prune out the parts of the plant that were harming the health of the rest of the tree, of adding lime to the soil, to help the tree thrive, to yield juicier fruit, growing stronger.  Today, I’m attacking fungus and bugs, things that are hard to see, but still harm the tree.  There were nods of understanding when I weave the care of apple trees into our lives and our dreams.

Eagerly, they watch me spray their trees, explaining each step, why I’m doing what I’m doing, helping to grow healthy trees, bring forth a bigger harvest, make this part of the world just a bit better. Their questions are thoughtful, to the point, raising issues I hadn’t thought about.  Together, we explore new questions, new solutions.  We are all students here.

They’re orchardists of their own lives, and the concepts of opening something up to more sunshine and fresh air. Thinning out disease and refocusing energy are familiar ideas.  

These men are gardeners of their own lives.  Their questions and our discussions about apples teach me about the real agriculture that is going on here, behind the fence that surrounds their home.  

“I learned to take care of a garden.  Now I can take care of my life,” a young man said not long ago to one of the teachers there.  

That wisdom helped him in the weeding and pruning of his life.

His story, told while we are snacking on some of the vegetables they had grown, brings nods of understanding from the young men there, gathered around the table.  It is a lesson they know well, a way of thinking that is part of the routine, part of what they do every day when they water and tend their plants, feed their chickens, and make plans for how their garden would grow in the coming summer, and the summer of their own precious lives.