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Tomato Superhero vs. The Sprawling Beast
Jul. 5th, 2004 07:44 amThinking quicklly, Ken grabbed a large bundle of twine. "You hold it," he said," and I'll try to tie it to the stake." "OK," I replied, "But hurry! I can't hold this mass of stems for very long without losing a major branch somewhere!"
As he began grabbing and tying, it became clear that the massive tomato beast was far, far too canny for such a conventional approach. Cleverly disguising itself as a much smaller plant, it had grown long arms over the balconey itself, snaking along the underside of the roof and reaching its blossom-laden tendrils out to the sky on one side while crawling along the inner walls and attempting to enter the building on the other. As I pushed its mighty branches away from the edge of the rail, Ken wove in and out of the tree, pulling together stems as thick as a toddler's arm, attaching one to another and eventually twinging the whole structure to its neighbor's stake.
"What happened to the stake holding up this plant?" he shouted to me over the rustling and groaning of leaves. "See that red metal corkscrew shaped rod?" I asked, pointing to an almost invisible slim rod utterly engaulfed by a mass of green. "The catalogue said that it was a good alternative to regular stakes. See, it's shaped like a corkscrew to better support the main stem."
Ken could only shake his head enigmatically. The metal rod that had seemed to tower above me so optimistically when I pulled it out of its box had been left behind by verdant growth so long ago that its hapless top was only dimly visible underneath the thick foliage. The tops of the tomato tree had become so far-reaching that the currant-red lightning rod stood dwarfed---isolated---amongst the sea of green that was the center of the plant. "We'll just have to tie it to the stake holding up the tomato next to it," Ken said, as he staunchly continued his daunting task.
When finally we stepped back from the structure, encircled by suicidal tiny green tomatos, we were confronted by another sad reality. The tree had exceeded the height of the balconey by so many inches that its tops STILL lay bent along the underside of the roof, with no place to tie them and nowhere else to go. And yes, these ends were covered in blossoms, blossoms that with good fortune would become tomatos, further weighing down the plant.
We stood, silent and filled with foreboding, and took in the scene before us. My mind racing swiftly , I remembered a quote from "How To Grow World Record Tomatoes: A Guinness Champion Reveals His All-Organic Techniques" by Charles H. Wilber. "Healthy tomatoes can grow up to 2 inches a day," the text had declared. Shuddering, I gazed at the future disaster standing before me.
"Wait a minute," said Ken, with a look of sudden enlightenment. "Do you have any hooks?" he demanded. "Ummm, no, I don't think so," I said, uncomprehending. "Run downstairs and look in the toolbox," he urged. "Bring up any hooks that you find." "Well, alright," I replied, still in the dark. Within five minutes I returned, hauling two full toolboxes. "I didn't know exactly what you would need," I explained, as I set them both on the futon.
Laughing, Ken began looking through the metal boxes. Suddenly, crowing with delight, he pulled out a handful of brass hooks. "Here's our solution," he called out to me. "We'll screw these into the ceiling and tie the branches directly to them!" Standing on the chair next to the beast, he proceeded to install three brass hooks. Once this had been done, I assisted him in stitching together the skyward branches, attaching them to the hooks themselves. Afterwards, oozing with relief, we hugged each other in sheer victorious joy.
"Thank you, thank you! " I cried. "What would I have done without your help?" "Oh, it's nothing," Ken said modestly. "You'll just have to come out here next weekend and do it again. And have you looked at the other tomatoes?" he inquired. "They probably need some tying up, too."
NEXT WEEK: Fighting the beast's feet of clay: copper sulfide spray vs. the rising foliage fungus
As he began grabbing and tying, it became clear that the massive tomato beast was far, far too canny for such a conventional approach. Cleverly disguising itself as a much smaller plant, it had grown long arms over the balconey itself, snaking along the underside of the roof and reaching its blossom-laden tendrils out to the sky on one side while crawling along the inner walls and attempting to enter the building on the other. As I pushed its mighty branches away from the edge of the rail, Ken wove in and out of the tree, pulling together stems as thick as a toddler's arm, attaching one to another and eventually twinging the whole structure to its neighbor's stake.
"What happened to the stake holding up this plant?" he shouted to me over the rustling and groaning of leaves. "See that red metal corkscrew shaped rod?" I asked, pointing to an almost invisible slim rod utterly engaulfed by a mass of green. "The catalogue said that it was a good alternative to regular stakes. See, it's shaped like a corkscrew to better support the main stem."
Ken could only shake his head enigmatically. The metal rod that had seemed to tower above me so optimistically when I pulled it out of its box had been left behind by verdant growth so long ago that its hapless top was only dimly visible underneath the thick foliage. The tops of the tomato tree had become so far-reaching that the currant-red lightning rod stood dwarfed---isolated---amongst the sea of green that was the center of the plant. "We'll just have to tie it to the stake holding up the tomato next to it," Ken said, as he staunchly continued his daunting task.
When finally we stepped back from the structure, encircled by suicidal tiny green tomatos, we were confronted by another sad reality. The tree had exceeded the height of the balconey by so many inches that its tops STILL lay bent along the underside of the roof, with no place to tie them and nowhere else to go. And yes, these ends were covered in blossoms, blossoms that with good fortune would become tomatos, further weighing down the plant.
We stood, silent and filled with foreboding, and took in the scene before us. My mind racing swiftly , I remembered a quote from "How To Grow World Record Tomatoes: A Guinness Champion Reveals His All-Organic Techniques" by Charles H. Wilber. "Healthy tomatoes can grow up to 2 inches a day," the text had declared. Shuddering, I gazed at the future disaster standing before me.
"Wait a minute," said Ken, with a look of sudden enlightenment. "Do you have any hooks?" he demanded. "Ummm, no, I don't think so," I said, uncomprehending. "Run downstairs and look in the toolbox," he urged. "Bring up any hooks that you find." "Well, alright," I replied, still in the dark. Within five minutes I returned, hauling two full toolboxes. "I didn't know exactly what you would need," I explained, as I set them both on the futon.
Laughing, Ken began looking through the metal boxes. Suddenly, crowing with delight, he pulled out a handful of brass hooks. "Here's our solution," he called out to me. "We'll screw these into the ceiling and tie the branches directly to them!" Standing on the chair next to the beast, he proceeded to install three brass hooks. Once this had been done, I assisted him in stitching together the skyward branches, attaching them to the hooks themselves. Afterwards, oozing with relief, we hugged each other in sheer victorious joy.
"Thank you, thank you! " I cried. "What would I have done without your help?" "Oh, it's nothing," Ken said modestly. "You'll just have to come out here next weekend and do it again. And have you looked at the other tomatoes?" he inquired. "They probably need some tying up, too."
NEXT WEEK: Fighting the beast's feet of clay: copper sulfide spray vs. the rising foliage fungus
