“Just plant your tomatoes, son! Don’t let politics steal your peace”

By the time I was fifteen, I thought I had it all figured out. It was 1984, and America was buzzing with slogans, speeches, and finger-pointing. Every dinner table conversation turned political—neighbors shouting about Reagan or Mondale, unions, inflation, nukes. I’d memorized the headlines and thought passion equaled wisdom.

My Grandpa Joe, though, was quiet. He lived in a little brick house on the edge of town with a screened porch, a garden full of tomatoes, and a black-and-white TV he only turned on for the weather. He’d worked the mills, raised a family, and buried his wife too young. But politics? He wouldn’t touch it.

One Saturday afternoon, I burst onto his porch, waving a flyer from my school’s “Youth for Change” club. “Grandpa, you gotta hear this. They’re ruining everything. We have to fight back!”

He didn’t flinch. Just sipped his iced tea, eyes soft but unreadable.

“You’ve got a good heart, Noah,” he said finally, setting his glass down. “But let me give you a piece of advice I wish I’d heard at your age: don’t let politics steal your peace.”

“But if we don’t speak up, we’re part of the problem!” I argued.

He smiled, almost sadly. “Son, I’ve seen parties come and go. I’ve seen leaders rise, fall, and rise again. And I’ve seen good folks tear each other apart over people they’ll never meet.”

He stood and pointed to his garden. “See those tomato plants? They don’t care who’s in office. They need sun, water, and time. That’s how life is, too. People need each other. They need kindness. Not slogans.”

I left frustrated that day. I thought he didn’t understand. I spent the next few years diving deeper into movements, protests, and debates. I gained recognition, lost friends, and watched my passion turn into anger. I couldn’t sleep some nights, heart racing over something someone said on the news.

And then one day—ten years later—I was scrolling through an article about a scandal involving a politician I once idolized. I felt… nothing. Just empty.

I remembered Grandpa sitting on that porch, drinking tea, growing tomatoes, listening more than he spoke. He had peace I’d never known.

That summer, I returned to that little brick house. The garden was overgrown—Grandpa had passed the year before. I knelt in the soil and cleared the weeds, planted new seeds. Not because it solved the world’s problems. But because it healed something in me.

I tell my own kids now: “Speak up, yes. Care deeply. But don’t let the noise swallow you. Don’t forget to plant your tomatoes.”

Because sometimes the wisest choice isn’t shouting the loudest—it’s knowing when to stay rooted.