The Tomatoes are In

This is the weekend when many Americans do something to remember their lost love ones. A visit to the cemetery, looking through a scrapbook or just sitting on the newly completed screen porch drinking cold Sierra Nevada's thinking about the dearly departed.

Actually, this is my first one (holds up an empty.) Excuse me a second. I'll be right back.
(time passes. He returns with a fresh frosty, and continues typing)
Most of the day was spent in the garden. It was a perfect day. 70 degrees, mostly sunny skies, no wind. I planted two Rhododendron bushes and two dozen tomato plants. And, assorted marigolds.

According to the old Farmers Almanac this is the first planting day of the season for vegetables and flowers that are not "hardy." People who do not garden seem to have a warped sense of how May weather is supposed to be. They complain, "Where is Spring?"

Just because April is a cruel temptress with those lovely warm days, a lot of people are seduced into thinking that Spring will come early this year. Then comes May - the Evil bitch goddess of frigid rains and unending dankness. We, who plant tomatoes, know these harridans well. We know that killer frost can come anytime in May. So, we wait until Memorial day to plant our tomatoes, and we hope to start picking the Early Girls around the third week in July. Then for a glorious month or so, we have fresh homegrown tomatoes for our salads, sauces, salsa, sliced, or just to eat out of your hand, like an apple.

This year, I planted an extra 6 plants. Last year the rodent population squirrels, rabbit and chipmunks was out of control. They nibbled at everything in the garden. More than once I saw squirrels making off with tennis ball sized tomatoes. This year, I will not have the time to guard my little patch with the trusty BB gun, so I just planted more, hoping to offset the losses from varmints. I do not invest all this labor and effort to save money. I is all done in anticipation of the incomparable flavor of home grown tomatoes over store bought.

My mother used to call me "Farmer Brown." I miss her sarcasm and sense of humor. Here's to you, Mom, wherever you are. (Guzzles down the last of the Sierra, then goes inside for a nap.)