Today, we are pleased to be joined by a new Prude—Noel L. Flippancy. Hailing from that most prudish state of Virginia, Noel is a wife, mother, writer, and would-be gardener. Like many of us, she has experienced the pangs of unrequited love from a cold-hearted plot of earth; today she bares her heart and shares her story…
The maxim states “the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.” And heaven knows I like our neighbors well enough. A man who rolls your garbage can back to its designated spot is much appreciated when you’re lumbering around with an overreaching belly and a baby who can’t quite crawl. Not to mention the other side, who swears we “don’t need to get a dog for protection purposes—everyone knows that he lives on the street and owns multiple shotguns.”
Like I said, I like them well enough. But one is apt to feel a tinge of jealousy when contemplating tomatoes. After all, most sorts won’t grow in anything venturing upon less than full sunlight. They are crabby enough with rainy days, don’t dare speak of a permanent arbor or shrub that may confiscate some sun.
And so I say it with impunity—the grass is greener in our neighbor’s yards. It is not personal ill will or prejudice. We believe that science is real, and science clearly states that photosynthesis is a proven fact.
Our backyard is a lovely, picturesque English-cottage-like one, with well set-out borders, encroaching ivy, and trees galore—all in the space of half an acre. The trees will provide a nice cover for our future gaggle of children while they swing on the monkey bars and run loose like ruffians. But trees, whatever their strong suits, do not excel where sunlight is concerned. You may say that there I am incorrect—it is a wonderful pastime to rock in a hammock while your eyes glaze over, dimly aware of dappled leaves and filtering yellow and white beams upon your face. But you must see that filtering is not the same as full, radiant, warmth-begetting sun rays. And tomatoes, as I said before, are particular.
Perhaps a well-versed, much-experienced head gardener of an estate could choose the right variety of plush fruit and raise it to fattened maturity, to one day grace the table of the Master. I am only the kind of very slightly greenish thumbed “just beginning” sort of gardener to whom sunlight is sunlight and tomatoes are tomatoes, and they go together like peanut butter and jam. One necessitates the other, if you see what I mean.
Alas for the plain, link-fenced, treeless yard of neighbor Mike! A cry even for the green (brown?) expanse in Jesse’s back lot! Tomatoes would perhaps deign to put down roots and up shoots on their little plots of acreage. They would look with scorn on our leafed, shaded, wished-for vegetable garden. Yes, I am jealous of the green grass that grows beyond our fences, and the sunlight that shines full of possibility in other’s gardens.
If only one could reasonably steal light! It would be easy work to hop the fence, cut out a square of sunlight and bring it back for our little fruit’s good health. It would be fairytale-ish. But the dog would consider it his duty to follow after me, and I don’t look with favor on the idea of attempting to get a great dog of many pounds’ weight down from a 7-foot fence of which he is half over and half behind. At midnight. With my hands full of sun sleeping, and my voice full of mounting exasperation. This is the shotgun neighbor’s backyard too. And all this for the sake of a few measly tomatoes.
No, better that we don’t have real-life fairytales but only reality TV shows for daily life. I suppose I’ll have to stay out of my neighbor’s yard and stick to potted tomato plants if I’m feeling really ambitious. Alas, and alack! We’ll humbly and simply try our own plain soil and filtered light and see what summer brings. If not tomatoes, at least a baby, and that’s something.
—N.L.F.
We all have problems. Mine are with bell peppers. I can make tomatoes and berries and peaches grow like it’s my job, but Bell Peppers. They hate me.