This morning I watered actual tomato seedlings- their little leaves broken through the soil and reaching toward the sun. And while my heart filled with joy at the sight of life, a bad taste lingered in my mouth. For these are not my tomatoes. These are transplants, all-star out-of-towners recruited from my dad’s growing station (which he responsibly started the first week of February). All of my tomato plots sit dejectedly in the metaphorical shadow of these impressive specimens, still showing no signs of life. Will this enlistment of a brand new first string be the peer pressure my seeds need to finally step up and do something? Only time will tell.
Standard gardening practices have done nothing. Curses won’t do anything, for there is no past life to revive. I fear this psychological manipulation is the best hope my tomatoes have. Do I feel good about it? No. But not bad enough to stop.