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Southern Oregon Journal: Trying again with tomatoes Sunday Apr 2, 2017 at 12:01 AM By Peggy Dover for the Mail Tribune My stubborn two-thirds (the other third is optimism) took control at the Growers’ Market last week. I do love that place. Suddenly, while passing the lusciousness that is Fry Family Farm, I found myself rooted to the ground. I could not move before snagging two hapless tomato plants and one Italian flat leaf parsley, the latter of which seemed ignorant of my questionable gardening skills likely due to its limited English vocabulary. My diabolical tomato fame, however, has spread far, and these two unfortunates, a Sweet 100 cherry, and one Early Girl, trembled as I placed them in the cardboard container, fearing they were doomed to vegetable abuse, their dreams of future progeny adorning everything from pizzas to BLTs dashed to bits. Good thing they didn’t speak Italian. I hope to surprise them this year. I have proper care and containers in mind for my new charges: pots for the tomatoes and an old, leaky birdbath for the parsley. My plan is to see that Giorgio the parsley has neighbors like rosemary and basil: an international herb garden. My birds, who have little to squawk about in the seed department, have experienced continual disappointment with the bird bath anyway, often tweeting something akin to, “Who pulled the plug?” It’s hard to know for certain, because “Ps” are hard to pronounce with a beak. Just try it. So an herb garden it shall become once I clear out last year’s leaves and fill it with soil. If the soil plugs the leak, it will become a floating garden, in which case I will exchange the herbs for frogs and water hyacinth. I’m reasoning that having container plants closer to my field of vision can help me remember to do something with them, like water and sing to them while I await their bounteous fruit crop. When they’re way back by the kindling pile, I forget they’re not part of the weeds. The weeds do fine without me. I seem to recall from years of watching all of my relatives sprout and grow thriving, whopping produce that warm-weather crops like tomatoes and peppers require waiting to plant until the danger of frost has passed. My uncle used the Mother’s Day theory, I believe. Or was that for potatoes, and tomatoes need a full moon? I’m not going there. Meanwhile, my tomato plants soar in their 4-inch plastic pots on my windowsill, growing tall and gangly like teenagers: their faces ever following the sun and awaiting that glorious day of emancipation when they can stretch their boundaries. Mother’s Day is six weeks off, and they’ll be seven feet tall by then. I doubt they can wait that long. Meanwhile, Georgio, likely the only Italian I’ll ever enjoy in my kitchen, appears the picture of herbean contentment and gratitude. He will soon be joined by friends in the avian Roman bath. In direct contradiction to my pitiful veggie-growing experiences, my houseplants qualify for a photo shoot in Plant Perfection magazine. For some strange reason, they have chosen to shower grace on my sagging psyche and do me proud. My African violet explodes like fireworks with pinky lavender blooms and shiny leaves like velvet. My grandma Goby would be proud. In fact I think it may have been hers. I took a chance and transplanted it after maybe 15 years. The roots stretched and offered me a practical expression of their gratitude. It’s amazing what fresh soil can do. — Peggy Dover is a freelance writer living in Eagle Point. Email her at [email protected].