The Rural Voice, 1999-10, Page 6NETWORKS
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2 THE RURAL VOICE
Gisele Ireland
Buried in
The yellow Brain Trains are
chugging up and down the roads once
again. signifying that we've used up
another summer.
Did the season come to your
expectations?
Were you hot
enough? Did
you Lind a way
to keep the dust
clouds from the
laneway from
seeping into the
house and
settling on the
curtains and
upholstery? Not
to worry,
you've got all
fall to clean up
after summer.
If I were to
write my memoirs, this would have
been the summer of the TOMATO. It
is the only vegetable. or fruit if you
want to get technical, that Super
Wrench insists on supervising in the
garden. Whatever number of
seedlings I bring home in the spring,
it's never enough. Super Wrench
always finds another dozen or so, that
looked so healthy he couldn't resist
them.
My passion is flowers, and Super
Wrench tolerates that, as long as I
don't neglect the TOMATO plants.
He inquires incessantly throughout
June and July whether I've fertilized
them, watered them and checked for
worms. Even if I reply in the
affirmative, Super Wrench double
checks to make sure.
We had the first ripe TOMATO on
July 23 and you'd think Super
Wrench had given birth. Anyone who
even mentioned gardening in passing
was asked whether they had their first
TOMATO yet. Super Wrench could
brag about early, but not about size.
His TOMATOES were small
compared to the dinner -plate -sized
ones his buddies were bragging about
dragging through the grass from the
garden to the dinner table.
Super Wrench's TOMATOES
might have been small, but they
turned into an avalanche. At first it
was a treat to get TOMATO salad,
tomatoes
sliced ones on sandwiches or straight
off the vine, still warm from the sun.
The novelty wore off real quickly for
me.
Super Wrench, the intrepid
TOMATO picker, left baskets of
them on the counter, on the picnic
table and in the entry way. What
happened to them was up to me. He
kept a close eye on me to prevent me
slipping the odd basket out to dump
in the soybeans. I got a rash and a
headache everytime I saw him with a
basket in the garden. I knew it meant
hours of peeling, stuffing and
sweating to get them into jars. Of
course, the most TOMATOES were
always ready when the thermometer
went over 30.
After yet another batch cooling in
jars on the counter, a permanent
solution occurred to me. I snuck into
the garden shed to get a slurp of
Roundup and cure the TOMATO
plague. It was nowhere to be found
and Super Wrench had outsmarted
me. He must have sensed TOMATO
saturation in my mood and cut me off
at the pass.
Another form of attack came to
me amidst yet another jar stuffing
spree. I gave baskets to my three
oldest grandsons and instructed them
to pick the TOMATOES and treat
them just like they had the peas
earlier on. On their first foray through
the pea patch they had left at least
half of the plants uprooted. I could
live with half the TOMATO plants
gone.
Again, the great TOMATO
protector struck. Super Wrench
actually left a piece of machinery and
took the time to instruct the tykes on
proper TOMATO picking etiquette.
All the plants survived, and I got
three more baskets delivered by three
smiling grandsons and a smug Super
Wrench who knew exactly what I
was trying to do.
If the YK2 bug threatens your
food supply, come see the Wrench.
We've got enough canned
TOMATOES to give you canker
sores until spring.0
Gisele Ireland, from Bruce County, is
an author of several humorous books
on farm life.