Straddling the Intersecton of Horror and Hope

There were two catches in my throat, albeit from oppositely toned stimuli.  Watering the garden and then surrendering myself to the garden trenches and their riotous weeds, it was my first seized opportunity to converse with the toddler vegetables on a first-name basis.  Obscured by the tufting grass blades in one area there, it happily turns out, lettuce actually appearing.  No signs yet of peppers on my greenhouse transplants, but the plants seem to be thriving.  The potatoes -- all three varieties -- appear positively festive; the purple cabbage, sage, collard greens and squashes are meanwhile flexing their own burgeoning muscles. 

It was, however, the tomatoes that made me giggle.  They are blooming.  Lots of them.  Lots of blossoms on lots of plants.  I'm not really clear why the tomatoes have risen to "favorite child" status.  In my head, I am every bit as anxious for the myriad pepper plants to go into labor.  I am eager for the squashes and beets and all the others.  But for whatever reason the tomatoes have captured my soul.  Maybe it is the extra attention they demanded in the sprouting -- first watering and watching, then moving up to more spacious abodes in the Kum and Go cups, and then finally being the last to dip their roots in the garden proper.  Perhaps it is the fully developed vision of their derivative uses via the canning kitchen we wait to employ.  Perhaps it is because the varieties I selected have particular whimsical appeal.  Or maybe it is, like the song says,
"There's only two things that money can't buy 
and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes."

I don't know.  Suffice it to say the appearance of those small yellow blossoms is like the first twinkling light of Advent, with the next several weeks -- OK, the next SEVERAL weeks -- feeling like a child's anticipation of Christmas.

I can't say that it completely took the song out of my step when I steered my way along the bean aisle, but the tune certainly shifted to a minor key.  There I could see that something has been getting better acquainted than I with my cannelini and calypso beans.  Upon closer inspection I could see that the favas and Good Mother Stallards have neither been immune.  Having sprouted vigorously, indeed almost playfully, with a delightfully leafy canopy, the row is now perilously near nakedness, more spindly stems than covering leaves.

 Something has been grazing, but whether rodent, insect or fowl I cannot yet say.  The fence is designed to withstand rabbits and raccoons and even deer.  Though I have seen birds landing and dancing within the compound, the damage doesn't strike me as particularly beak induced.  If I were a betting man, I would say it looks like rabbit nibbling, but I have yet to see any such thing anywhere near the fencing.  In front of the house, yes; beside the barn, you bet.  But I haven't seen them sniffing curiously around the garden aching for a tunnel in, though I suppose they could be coming at night.  Bugs of some kind could be the culprit -- a worm or some such predator -- but you would think you might see one hanging around.  So far, nothing.

Nothing, that is, except this oddly melancholic intersection of the bean row horror and the tomato blossoms' hope.  I grieve for my beans, but whatever it is better stay away from the tomatoes.  I might just have to set up a chair in the garden and spend the night on patrol...

...with a stick...
...or a gun...
...or a prayer.

I'm not much of an aim with either of the former, but I have to believe that God's heart, too, has a soft spot for homegrown tomatoes.