Finally a Tomato's Rest

There is, after all, a limit.  Yesterday I concluded that I had reached mine. 

It was a significant transition in the midst of a long journey that began in early March when we first began nestling seeds into soil blocks for the greenhouse's protected doorway into life.  There were all kinds of seeds, but favored among them were the 14 varieties of heirloom tomatoes.  As the weeks past we watched as the soil was broken by tender stems that slowly unfurled into true leaves.  As the seedlings stretched and reached, we slowly raised the shop lights that imitated daylight.  Eventually the soil blocks were outgrown and the great move was undertaken to larger containers -- 32-oz drink cups procured from a local convenience store.  It wasn't long before the roots were as deep as the stems were tall -- their spidering through the potting soil in pursuit of nourishment mirroring the branches' sprawling in pursuit of the sun.

Of course we over-planted.  Who knows, after all, how many of the seeds will actually germinate?  Prudence demands that you plant more than you will need to compensate for those that under-perform.  But then hardly any did.  Virtually all of the seeds matured -- dozens of them; in fact, hundreds.  We tended, we watered, we transplanted, and then the springtime, post-frost day finally arrived and we hauled the trays to the garden and set ourselves to the task.  Up one support line we planted, and then across along another, then finally back down still a third -- a horseshoeing of tomatoes circumferencing the central garden.  When we glanced back at the trays we saw that we had hardly made a dent in the supply.  I interrupted and detoured, planting two small varieties on the deck, and then returned to the garden to reimagine alternatives.  I dug more holes, set more cages, ran more drip lines, and still the supply was far from exhausted.  And so still a few more holes.

But yesterday I reached the end.  It wasn't so much that no more space remained.  I could have squeezed a few more in.  We have a few more cages.  I simply wasn't willing.  "Surely," I thought to myself, "one-hundred and sixty tomato plants is more than enough for anyone with an ounce of rational pretense."  That, and I decided I could no longer bear to look at those left over.  In a curiously similar way as preaching into a sanctuary with more pews than people, gardening in the constant presence of excess plants screamed at me "failure" and "laziness."  In churches one simply yanks out the extra pews.  In the garden I couldn't bring myself to toss the extras onto the compost heap, so I loaded them into the pickup and drove them off to be adopted through a social service agency that operates several community gardens for refugees in the area. 

One-hundred and twenty leftover tomato plants.  In addition to the 160 we had kept and planted for ourselves.

I hope they bear rich fruit -- the ones we kept and the ones we gave away.  All 14 varieties.  I pray they survive the tomato hornworms and the blights and avoid the blossom end rots and the alternating threats of drought and drenching.  And I hope that a few months down the road we will richly enjoy the salsa and marinara and salads and whatever other ways we all manage to use them.

In the meantime, I can say I slept easier last night for those extras being gone, and I approached today's work with a lighter step. To be sure, there are plenty of weeds continuing to whisper "Slacker!" as I make my way through the gate; but at least I don't have to look any longer at the tired and forlorn tomato stems languishing like puppies in a pet store window, wondering when their time will come.   By now they have all found a home. 

Which is to suppose that they slept easier last night as well.