Southwestern Pennsylvania is experiencing a very pleasant October. The weather has been exceptional, with temperatures in the day running in the 70s, and the night temperatures in the 60s. For the most part, no air conditioner or furnace is needed (a Pennsylvanian’s bliss). The only downside I can come up with is it has delayed the coloring of the trees a bit, so those that have planned day trips to see the leaves will hopefully be able to postpone it for a week or two.

This past spring we finally took our first stab at tomato planting, and have been able to enjoy our very own homegrown Beefsteak Tomatoes for many weeks now. Because the first frost still hasn’t occurred, the tomatoes are still coming. The vines have nearly run their course, however, and most of them are orange or light red—nearing their moment of vegetable and/or fruitful glory in a lovely crimson shade. Many of these delicious-with-ham-and-cheese accompaniments have imperfections of some kind, but once in a while we get a truly perfect tomato. No blemishes, marks, or insect bites, and worthy of an artist’s portrayal in oils on a canvas. Almost too lovely to eat (but we always do anyway).

My mind always relates things to NASCAR, helpless, hopeless fan that I have become. As I have watched Dale Earnhardt Jr., soon-to-be-driver of the No. 88 Chevy, he reminds me of those tomatoes that are losing their immature orange in place of, coincidentally, Budweiser red.

I have seen the older clips of him with his famous father, where he looked like he may have been still interested in toy cars (how cool would that be, to see toy diecasts of your Dad’s business cars hanging on spokes in the local Walmart), and his voice would occasionally crack and change tone like an engine ready to seize. When answering reporters’ questions about his future with ‘I want to be a racecar driver’, you couldn’t help but inwardly say, ‘awww’.

Of course, a few too-quick-in-coming years later, I watched another broadcasted piece of his life with great discomfort, evoking a much more passionate ‘awww’. During the championship banquet in New York that followed Dale Earnhardt’s tragic death, as the tribute to the sport’s famous hero began, the camera zoomed into Jr.’s face so closely you could see the hairs that a razor never needs to cut. I held my breath, as I am sure many of his fans did, as his face remained passive, and his eyes remained dry. I do not know what the producers were hoping for, but if it was running tears over a quivering jaw they did not get it. How I ached for Dale Jr. in that moment, and in the subsequent and seemingly endless interviews thereafter. The cameras might not have zoomed in as closely, but they still looked for any signs of a crack in that seemingly strong exterior. He patiently and straight-forwardly answered all of the ‘Do you miss your Dad?’ questions, seemingly without any aggravation at their consistency. These types of questions still come up for him, and he still handles them with more grace than I think many of us would have.

In recent times, the subject of his choice to leave DEI after this season and head to the Hendrick camp created a swell of media attention that would rival that of a cure for an awful disease. Again the cameras and reporters followed after Dale, and the racing journalists (genuine, hopefuls, and not-so-much) churned out their notions and theories on ‘what is Dale Jr. thinking’ on a daily basis. Through it all, Dale Jr. never took the opportunity to exaggerate, stimulate, or complicate the topic, and respectfully avoided the chance to turn it into a Hatfield vs. Hatfield spectacle. Whether or not you think this career choice is the right one, it is hard not to admire how Dale Jr. is handling it all. I have resisted the urge to send Jr. a Popeye T-shirt proclaiming, “I y’am what I y’am” on several occasions, but still imagine him in it.

Yes, Dale Jr. has ripened on the vine quite beautifully, and seems to have brought his fans along with him. These famous fans, the Dale Earnhardt Jr. fans that are allegedly devout to the point of psychotic degrees, have gracefully rode the Budweiser wagon to the energy-drink warehouse and, even more amazingly, his Chevy to the Hendrick hacienda, with patience, acceptance, and loyalty. This ‘NASCAR garden’ is one to be admired.