In past springs I would labor at digging holes deep enough to please the tomato plants, then as the trees overlooking my garden grew taller and left my plots in shadow, I moved my operations to pots on the deck, big pots, but, it seemed, never big enough. My reward in tomatoes was skimpy in size and number no matter how much fertilizer I poured on; the variety was Big Boy, only they came out Little Cherries.
This year I went straight for the throat. I purchased a 1.5 cubic-foot sack of garden soil prepped for vegetables (“Feeds For Three Months”), made a hole in the top and stuck in the tomato plant. For stability, I slung the sack into a pot, which I set on wheels so that I could wheel it into shelter if it rained. I didn’t want the plant to drown with no outlet through the plastic.
Proudly, I then took a picture of the scene and sent it to my nephew but must have transposed a number, for the reply text said: “Wrong number, but it’s ok. OMG! Is it marijuana?”
My hasty reply: “No no. Tomato plant. Sorry for wrong number.”
Back came: “That’s ok. I won’t report you.”
I hope he/she doesn’t. Still waiting.