How does one end up with 69 tomato plants and what do you call such a person? This is not a rhetorical question.
After I counted them, two associations freely emerged. First, Nena’s song 99 Luftballons began playing in my head with appropriately altered lyrics. And, almost simultaneously, I saw myself as the crazy cat lady from the recent “Shouts & Murmurs” by Amy Ozols. If you have missed it, read it right here, right now. (I meant it as a link, not as a command, by the way, but once you’re done reading it, you’ll see that many, if not all, bets are off. Plus, you might recognize some of the newer additions to my phraseology. And, it’s one of the funniest “Shouts & Murmurs” I’ve ever read.)
Anyway. Welcome to my garden. Can I take your coat? Make yourself at home…
Can you spot a tomato in this photo? If you could to zoom in on certain parts (fortunately, you cannot), you would make out about 50 of them. Where are the remaining 19 then? I’d tell you but… Does it really matter?
Let me . . . CONTINUE READING → 69 tomato plants (and some other memorable Memorial Day labors)
The fog was so thick this morning that you couldn’t see the lake from the window. On my morning walk-through, wrapped in a magic foggy mist, I noticed the first sunflower! — as if the sun made a cameo to make up for its absence. Cheered up, I performed a few sunflower salutations with my camera.
A new lily opened its petals in the fog but you can’t see it from everywhere under the yellow umbrellas of dill flowers that grew wide and tall around it in the last couple of days.
It rained and drizzled all morning and early afternoon, so Barbara and I used the rain break for a long-planned trip to Zema’s nursery in Stephentown — where I’ve never been before — to pick out some new plants. It has a pretty large selection, and I, as expected, had to 
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