TOMATOES AT FIVE THOUSAND FEET

Wikipedia says our town is at an altitude of 4,865 feet (1,483 M) above sea level. In addition, we are just hours south of Canada. This combination of altitude and latitude gives us a very narrow window for gardening. I have seen it snow here every month of the year except August. We had a snow storm in 1993 that nearly shut down a July 4th Parade--possibly a result of high altitude ash from the eruption of Mount Pinatubo---but I digress. Killing frosts can occur as late as June, so most people don’t plant their sweet corn until the end of May. Tomatoes have to get a head start in a greenhouse or a sunny window. There are a great variety of ways to keep tomato plants warm and healthy. When I was feeding three teen-age boys I used the black plastic and old tire method. It works well, but the cold weather always seems to arrive before the crop turns red. That usually means bringing green tomatoes into the house to ripen. Canning would drag out until October.

Fresh tomatoes that can survive a truck ride to Idaho have the texture and flavor of a racquet ball. To my way of thinking, a few garden grown tomatoes are worth extra effort even if they can only be enjoyed for a few weeks in August and September.

In the middle of May I bought some gallon sized tomato plants and nestled each one into a gadget called a Wall-of-Water.

The plastic collar has vertical columns that are filled with water to hold in heat and keep out cold and wind.

They work okay, unless you don’t put them on level ground or mound dirt around the base. Then they choose to topple onto the baby plants late in the evening when you are in your high heels. Your attempts to right the situation results in ruined nylons (more about them later) and muddy party shoes.

When frost is predicted you gather the top around the plant. On sunny afternoons the collar is opened to disperse heat. (Lots of hands on stuff so don’t try this with an acre of plants).

Yesterday I noticed the plants were straining to crawl out of their little greenhouses so I went to step two.

I pulled off the Wall of Waters and stuck a stake in the dirt about three inches from each plant (you can use about any kind of 1x1 pole about five feet long).

Now I got out those ruined panty hose. I know enclosing your legs in stockings is old school. But around here we get so few chances to see sunlight that, out of courtesy, most ladies wear nylons with dresses to protect others from the glare of legs the color of mayonnaise. Anyway, I cut up the hose into two-to-three inch wide strips and used them to tie the plants to the stakes in several places.

The last part of the process (I told you this was labor intensive)

is to prune the plants so there is just one main stem. As the plants grow, new shoots form where the branches attach to the stem. These little suckers have to be pulled off when they are two-to-four inches long. I grasp them with a thumb and forefinger and pull outward and downward. New ties and pruning need to happen about every ten days. IF I can maintain this procedure and the weather co-operates I will get less tomatoes, but huge ones that are ripe long before the first frost. More later.

BUNNIES AND BEAVERS (Wildlife not Wild Life)

If you get up early and go down by the river before the joggers and dog walkers

you will be a witness to the best part of the day. Cottontails breakfast in the soft shadows. New grass is food and a screen from intruders.

If you go too near, they gather and unfold across the path

and melt into the briers.

Spring makes the river big and busy. The water splashes and sparkles in the low light.

And plays in the mud along the banks.

A loud SMACK on the water announces the presence of a beaver.

He is built for work, not beauty.

Trees along the river

show evidence of his labors.

He's aware of intruders, but has sticks to ferry

to his latest project.

You wish you had more time to soak up the peace of the morning. The road returns you to reality.

YES, I INHALED

I was flat on my back. The face looking down at me was vaguely familiar. I slowly realized the last time I had seen her; she had been an unruly teen hiding behind a curtain of dark hair. “Do you want the gas?” No wonder I did not recognize her. I had never seen those charming eyes. But she was so YOUNG and she was poised behind a tray full of very sharp steel instruments. “Yes, by all means, bring on the gas.” I inhaled both lungs full. Dr. S. sat down behind my right shoulder. When he bent over I could see the hair in his nose. I trusted Dr. S. He’d had his hands in the mouth of all my children. Once he had put everything on hold to stop a pain in my jaw that threatened to make my head explode. His office sported more new digital equipment every time I stopped by. But there was that same NEEDLE stabbing into my mouth and threatening to shoot out the back of my neck. I have found that silently reciting poetry helps me disregard alarming situations. I shut my eyes and got through most of John Masefield’s “Sea Fever” (“I must go down to the seas again”), when the drilling and slurping started. An old silver filling was being replaced with a pretty white porcelain job in a back molar. The nitrous oxide was making my brain foggy (Try something easier, uh, “Whose woods these are I think I know,”) I smelled smoke. (My head is on fire!….. “His house is in the village, though.”) Brown Eyes handed Dr. S. something that looked like a plate of bubble gum. (“He will not see me”….uh…duh). “Bite down…hmmm a little high” (Yeah, I think I am). “How does that feel?” Dr. S. grinned. My tongue felt like a hunk of raw liver. The whole left side of my face was dead. “Pleddy Gub! Flls fwine!” Dr. S. left. Brown Eyes brought me down from the gas and sent me out the door. I sat in my car with dried drool on my face. I looked in the mirror with slightly crossed eyes at the glistening white in the back of my mouth. I wondered if I should be behind the wheel in this condition. I took the back streets home.