There are visions of ripe tomatoes dancing in my head. I love tomatoes the same way I love a margarita or a mocha latte. And so the saga continues.
This week I planted my garden. I am very late. The vegetables I planted like warm soil and our soil hasn’t been warm. Tomatoes, basil, cucumbers and parsley went in. Finally.
I have been planting a garden since I was a kid. It is difficult to find really tasty tomatoes. Most stores and even farm stands refrigerate them and that kills the flavor. So each year spurred on by dreams of tomatoes, I dig, plant and reap the rewards.
Every year it gets more daunting.
I don’t know if it’s the desire or interest or energy level or just plain aging. Bags of top soil and mulch are heavier. Digging is harder. For the same job (with less plants) it’s a bigger project.
I have cut back considerably. Last year I had enough tomatoes for myself. The neighbors were out of luck. This year I planted even less plants.
I have always loved working around the house, indoors and out. House projects, as long as they are not too daunting, are fun. (OMG! I
said wrote that out loud!)
Not so much anymore. I love sitting and admiring the finished project. I can do that for hours. The hoisting and bending, stooping and redoing are not my favorite parts.
The days of paying a neighborhood kid $20 to dig your garden are long gone. Kids don’t need $20 and they don’t have the time with all their activities. Besides I rarely see kids dirty these days.
I remember when my mother stopped planting her garden. She was in her 70s and it was just too much work. For me it was a sad day. Not because of the garden but for what it symbolized. I had an aging parent who would leave me one day soon.
Now I am at that same point. Perhaps next year is the time to put the tomato plant in a pot on the patio.
Of course, I said that last year. As long as there is a spark of enthusiasm over that silly tomato, I still go out and plant. For another year. You never know which year will be the last.