Project Pee

After a couple of instructional sessions with Dr Joyce I’m on a roll. Cleaning up my diet, my house, my medicine cabinet, my act – and Russ’s too while I’m at it (and you know how much he loves that). It’s a tall order, but I persevere. But let me tell you, once you open this can of toxic worms, there’s no end to it. Layers and layers of questionable stuff everywhere you look. It’s a bottomless pit.

It was late May, which passes for early spring here in the great northern reaches. Inspired by Dr Joyce’s nothing if not impressive organic vegetable patch, I decided, for the first time in my aesthetic, flower driven life, to plant something edible. Hmmm….tomatoes. Just the thing. We’re very fond of our Hanover Tomatoes down in Richmond. A summer ritual; thick slices of sandwich width, ruby red, juicy ripe tomatoes nestled into a slathered cushion of Hellman’s “my-naise” (as we say in my part of Va.). Salt, pepper, and napkin for the drips – ahhhh. It’s really summer now. By early July the annual feast has begun. Home-grown Hanovers piled in bushels and bins, in markets and road side stands. Just what I needed, a taste of home.

I bought four tomato plants. Two cherry, and two regular. Basil and parsley to round out my imaginary salad plate, plus organic fertilizer for a little kick start.

Problem number one; the ground around the barn is shady. Tomatoes need full sun, even I knew that. So, new bed it would have to be. I spotted just the place out in the open behind where we park the cars. A patch of weeds and lumpy looking ground crowned with a scraggly honeysuckle bush. I attacked the honeysuckle (think Bonsai), then, undeterred, began to dig.

“Chink” – rock.

A little to the right. “Chink”.

Left. “Chink” again.

NOW I know why nothing would grow here.

Inch by inch I unearthed a boulder. If, like me, you like rocks, Maine is the place for you. Rocks rocks and more rocks. Perfect. I’d build my tomato patch around this cool rock! A feature. An aesthetic point of interest. Now we’re talking! I scraped and dug around, giving it edges, then swept it and washed it down. A great gleaming gem of a rock if there ever was one. I loved it.

It took me all day. I scalped off the weedy grass, trenched out tangled roots, pitched scattered small stones, and turned and luffed the amazingly rich looking, completely non-toxic, soil. I hauled in more rocks for edging and a a few larger specimens to nestle near the “mother” rock to kind of round things out. Then, tenderly, I tucked my fledgling green children into their cushy new bed.

Casually, I mentioned to Russ that I’d hit a nest of ants when I dug in the last tomato. “You’d better move it, or they’ll kill it.” Fiddlesticks. Surely the ants can work around a few roots. Live and let live, that’s my motto.

The next day, smiling proudly, Russ announced he’d taken care of my ant problem. “How?” He scattered POISON PELLETS over the entire bed.

Had I failed to adequately convey the concept of Organic?

I think it was more like when you lose electricity in storm and you think, “No TV? No problem. We’ll just watch a movie on the laptop!” Ants in your chemical free garden? No problem, poison the buggers!

I swept the entire bed with a whisk broom. Have you ever tried to sweep dirt? Just in the nick of time, before the rain hit, I was once again certifiably organic.

Within a few days, exactly as Mr Know-It-All predicted, the ant plant died a slow tortured, root nibbled death. (Don’t you hate that – how did he know?) I replaced it with a new one – out of ant range. It thrives. Go figure.

Next problem; ground hogs.  Or woodchucks. Or low-lumbering furry bulldozers with a summer taste for Big Boys apparently equal to my own.

When I queried Dr Joyce about her wide open, fenceless, critter free garden, she replied, “Wolf urine.” She sprinkles male wolf urine around the perimeter.  

Wolf urine?

I may be short on male wolves, but I’ve got a perfectly good male man. With an endless supply of you know what. Perfect penance for poison pelleting. Here was Russ’s chance to redeem himself.

Project Pee was underway.

Figuring more pee is better pee, whatever the sex, I decided to do my part. Besides, it looked like fun.

We’ve been at it all summer. Russ enjoys it so much, he goes out of his way to sprinkle a new dose. I jump out of my car, rush over and drop trow. I must say its given us a very intimate connection to the tomatoes. And nary a nibble from the dreaded hogs.

All summer long, we’ve peed and watered, weeded, waited and watched as our little plants turned into tomato beanstalks. No kidding. By mid July, they were taller than Russ. Really. You’ve never seen such tomato plants. (Russ allowed as how something must be wrong with them. “Unnatural’ he pronounced.) We watched with anticipation as limbs sprouted and soared, flowers formed, and fell, then finally, slowly, green fruit appeared. And stayed. Green, green, and green again. What’s the matter with these slow poke tomatoes?

Maine is the matter with these slow poke tomatoes. Weak light. Low heat.

Finally, yesterday, on the ninth day of August, in this the last month of summer, in the great sate of Maine, as acorns begin to fall, and mornings begin to chill, I picked my first Big Boy. It was like I’d given birth. And, as the old saying goes, “there’s only one beautiful baby in the world, and every mother has it.”

I slathered up some bread, laid on a fine looking slice, salted, peppered and sat down with a sigh. When I shut my eyes I could almost feel the breeze, the hot tomato ripening sun, the salt air smell of the good ol’ Chesapeake.

Home again

It sure takes it’s sweet time in New England, and fall is beginning to creep around the edges, but finally, It must be summer.

other blog entries from »