23b July 2001: Garden

My first little tomatoes, 6 July, and a squash blosoom. Now there are tomatoes on all six plants, even the two plums I thought were so unhappy. I might have my first ripe tomatoes before the end of the month.

If there are any nectarines left when it's time for them to be ripe, it won't be the squirrels' fault. They love the premature fruit.

I planted sunflower seeds the last weekend in May. In June, they emerged. Halfway through July, they reached halfway up the six-foot fence. Also, I had installed a reel of clothesline. Last week I freed them of lots of bindweed, vicious stuff that clings and strangles and kills. The sunflowers are now taller by another third.

When I first transplanted my miraculous little tomato and egplant seedlings, and when the bean and zucchini seeds began to sprout, the garden looked skimpy to me. I thought I had wasted space. If it hadn't been raining this afternoon, I'd have taken a photograph of the jungle it's become. It is a wonder to me, every leaf that emerges, even inch a stem grows, every blossom that bursts forth after a sunny day, every tiny little fruit that slowly swells.

I do still ruthlessly rip off the zucchini leaves that shade the eggplant, miracles though they be. I feel guilty about that, even though if I didn't they'd take over the whole planet. Next year, two zucchini at the most, planted at the back.