Someone very wise once told me that while our minds try to explain everything, the heart speaks in pictures and metaphors. This is the story of a tomato plant that speaks a picture better than I can explain.
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This spring, my roommate and I were suddenly inspired to garden. We went on a long walk past a plot of community gardens and picked up a brochure.
"Carolyn?" I said to her. "I wonder if Bill (our landlord) would let us garden in that raised bed with those tiny ugly bushes."
So Carolyn called him up. I was sure he'd say no. I listened to Carolyn's end of the conversation.
"We were wondering if we might do a little gardening in the raised box outside our house... Yes the one with the bushes in it...Well, we know it's not very much room, but we'd like to try!... Okay, thank you!"
And just like that, we were gardeners! I went to work clearing some of the very sketchy mulch, saving it in my old humidifier box, in the unlikely event that Bill wanted it back at the end of the summer. I planted zinnia seeds we'd been given at church and documented their growth with my camera. Despite having almost no money, I went to our local hardware store and splurged on a trowel, a pack of four marigolds, a flowering plant that promised to come back year after year, and an heirloom tomato.
Caleb, my boyfriend, gave me a bag of potting soil to work into the heavy clay soil so common in this area. He also brought me a pair of gardening gloves which I stained black and green with nature and earth. I turned the potting soil along the row where I planned to plant things, watched the box for the times of day it had full sun. I planted the marigolds in intervals throughout the box, the tomato plant in the corner where it would get the most sun, and basil and sage from our CSA. I also planted the flowering plant, but it withered and died only days after.
It was one of the hottest summers on record. My May dreams of harvesting my own tomatoes were deferred again and again. I worked three jobs, still made almost nothing, and went on an unexpected two week trip to Spain. While I was gone, Caleb stopped by our house every day to water the tomato plants and others. The tomato plant grew, and grew, and grew. It put out flowers. It dropped the flowers. It grew some more.
I came back from Spain. Caleb's beard was enormous. So was the tomato plant.
The summer and I synced our rhythms, racing around frantically, knowing that the heat couldn't last forever and neither could this pace.
By July, I was weary. I watered the garden out of sympathy for our mutual heat exhaustion. I lifted up tomato branches, searching for a sign of red and spotting, again and again, the tag I pushed into the ground with pictures of what I hoped would be coming.
At the end of July, I quit my job as an ESL instructor, much to my parents' surprise. It was a huge relief. As the summer finally started to wind down, I found myself watering the garden while carrying the baby I began to nanny. I let him pull at the zinnias and tomato leaves.
In late September, I looked at the tomato plant. The thing was a giant mound, ten feet by ten feet. I had pruned it several times, to see if it would spark anything. It had been in the ground since May and had yet to produce a single tomato. I thought about Jesus cursing the fig tree and wondered if I should just rip the darn thing out of the ground right then and there. It had been, I decided, a waste of water to water the thing since May. Oh well. I love plants, and I don't like it when they die. I could never have killed one with intentional neglect.
The first two frosts came. No one could understand why, including myself, but I covered the tomato plant with two sheets (One wasn't big enough.)
And then a miracle happened. The tomato plant flowered, and almost overnight it was filled with tiny green tomatoes. They grew, and grew, and grew. Some were the size of softballs and still green. I could only laugh. It was October. The season for squash and pumpkins and greens. Not tomatoes! I pulled off the flowers where no tomato had yet formed so that they plant could put all its efforts into the tomatoes it already had. The plant had a mind of its own and put out more flowers than I pick. Tomato after tomato grew forth. I covered it for the frosts again.
Eventually, I picked those tomatoes and put them in my windowsill. Slowly but surely, they ripened one by one or two by two and I had garden tomatoes when I least expected - all the way through December.
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Carry on friends. Don't grow weary in your waiting. The time will come.
________________________________
This spring, my roommate and I were suddenly inspired to garden. We went on a long walk past a plot of community gardens and picked up a brochure.
"Carolyn?" I said to her. "I wonder if Bill (our landlord) would let us garden in that raised bed with those tiny ugly bushes."
So Carolyn called him up. I was sure he'd say no. I listened to Carolyn's end of the conversation.
"We were wondering if we might do a little gardening in the raised box outside our house... Yes the one with the bushes in it...Well, we know it's not very much room, but we'd like to try!... Okay, thank you!"
And just like that, we were gardeners! I went to work clearing some of the very sketchy mulch, saving it in my old humidifier box, in the unlikely event that Bill wanted it back at the end of the summer. I planted zinnia seeds we'd been given at church and documented their growth with my camera. Despite having almost no money, I went to our local hardware store and splurged on a trowel, a pack of four marigolds, a flowering plant that promised to come back year after year, and an heirloom tomato.
Caleb, my boyfriend, gave me a bag of potting soil to work into the heavy clay soil so common in this area. He also brought me a pair of gardening gloves which I stained black and green with nature and earth. I turned the potting soil along the row where I planned to plant things, watched the box for the times of day it had full sun. I planted the marigolds in intervals throughout the box, the tomato plant in the corner where it would get the most sun, and basil and sage from our CSA. I also planted the flowering plant, but it withered and died only days after.
It was one of the hottest summers on record. My May dreams of harvesting my own tomatoes were deferred again and again. I worked three jobs, still made almost nothing, and went on an unexpected two week trip to Spain. While I was gone, Caleb stopped by our house every day to water the tomato plants and others. The tomato plant grew, and grew, and grew. It put out flowers. It dropped the flowers. It grew some more.
I came back from Spain. Caleb's beard was enormous. So was the tomato plant.
The summer and I synced our rhythms, racing around frantically, knowing that the heat couldn't last forever and neither could this pace.
By July, I was weary. I watered the garden out of sympathy for our mutual heat exhaustion. I lifted up tomato branches, searching for a sign of red and spotting, again and again, the tag I pushed into the ground with pictures of what I hoped would be coming.
At the end of July, I quit my job as an ESL instructor, much to my parents' surprise. It was a huge relief. As the summer finally started to wind down, I found myself watering the garden while carrying the baby I began to nanny. I let him pull at the zinnias and tomato leaves.
In late September, I looked at the tomato plant. The thing was a giant mound, ten feet by ten feet. I had pruned it several times, to see if it would spark anything. It had been in the ground since May and had yet to produce a single tomato. I thought about Jesus cursing the fig tree and wondered if I should just rip the darn thing out of the ground right then and there. It had been, I decided, a waste of water to water the thing since May. Oh well. I love plants, and I don't like it when they die. I could never have killed one with intentional neglect.
The first two frosts came. No one could understand why, including myself, but I covered the tomato plant with two sheets (One wasn't big enough.)
And then a miracle happened. The tomato plant flowered, and almost overnight it was filled with tiny green tomatoes. They grew, and grew, and grew. Some were the size of softballs and still green. I could only laugh. It was October. The season for squash and pumpkins and greens. Not tomatoes! I pulled off the flowers where no tomato had yet formed so that they plant could put all its efforts into the tomatoes it already had. The plant had a mind of its own and put out more flowers than I pick. Tomato after tomato grew forth. I covered it for the frosts again.
Eventually, I picked those tomatoes and put them in my windowsill. Slowly but surely, they ripened one by one or two by two and I had garden tomatoes when I least expected - all the way through December.
---------------------
Carry on friends. Don't grow weary in your waiting. The time will come.
love this.
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