I’ve decided I’m not growing summer tomatoes any more. I pampered my summer tomatoes at a level that was ridiculous, even for my high-absurdity tolerance level. I fertilized and watered, checked them each day for bugs and worms, squashed twenty big fat tomato horn worms (after the clemency I showed the first one was repaid by his or her trying to crawl back up the tomato plant). And what did I get for the encouragement and effort I gave my ten tomato plants? Three tomatoes.
I voiced my concern to everyone who would listen. There were flowers on the plants, but they would fall off. I found out that I needed to fertilize more, I needed to plant more flowers that would attract pollinators, I was watering too much, I wasn’t watering enough. Then someone told me: It’s just too hot. Tomatoes don’t hold their blooms when it’s this hot. This sounded plausible, but I just didn’t know if it was true. I continued my vigil throughout the hot summer days.
Then fall arrived. The plants were looking so scraggly that I thought this must be the time to pull them up and plant something else. (That’s the thing with new gardeners—you never are quite sure about two things: when is something ripe and ready for picking, and when is it time to pull something up and move on.) But there was still a bit of life in their tired old bodies, and I kept giving them a few more days. I walked past my tomato plants each day as I did other chores, but the time for intense scrutiny and care was over. I watered infrequently, gave them one last dose of fertilizer, and left them to the natural cycle of life.
Eventually, I began to notice a few new leaves, to see a few new flowers and a few emergent tomatoes. I began to give some credence to those who said the summer was too hot. Still, I was not going to get all excited and indulge the plants as I had during the hot days of summer. Then one day, for heaven’s sake, a tomato began to blush! And then in a few days, another one with rosy cheeks tried to catch my eye. What was going on!
I left the tomato plants where they were. I dropped all thought of pulling them up. They were actually doing what I thought they were supposed to do in the summer. Just goes to show you what an independent lot they can be. So now I’m probably the only person in my neighborhood whose tomato plants are beginning production at the end of November. I have seven Beefsteak tomatoes, a couple of Celebrities, and about thirty Green Zebras that are trying to ripen before a heavy frost puts an end to them. The absurdity of it all. Thank goodness I’m not a stranger to it!
Next year I’m skipping the hand-wringing and hard work of summer tomatoes. I’m going to sit back, relax, and wait for the cool days of fall to plant that most desired fruit. After all, if the weather allowed for tomatoes in November this year, surely it will do the same next year. Right?
