How does your garden grow?

Shortly before Memorial Day, we planted our garden. We do this every year. Every spring we go out, till the earth, work the land, and plant a garden, just like the prophet told us to, because we are obedient. And every fall we harvest about three tomatoes and a couple of peppers. Maybe a softball sized pumpkin, if we're lucky. The zucchini, which grows prolifically for all others, may or may not produce one or two pathetic little squashes. Not even enough to make a loaf of zucchini bread.

This year was going to be different. We went to the sewage treatment plant and purchased a truckload of fertilizer, which, we've been told by those who know, is the absolute best thing to use. We bought the plants at a nursery, as opposed to WalMart, because what does Sam Walton know about plants--except for the part where he's pushing up daisies?

The planting went well, everything looked good, the soil was nice and rich looking, and our hopes were high.

We have a huge garden plot, and never use it all, so for the last couple of years we have lent a portion of it to apartment-dwelling neighbors. This year it ended up being about a third of the space. The neighbors were thrilled to have this opportunity, and we of course gave them the benefit of our years of experience as well. We counseled them to get the fertilizer, because our soil seems to be somewhat dead. They did, and planted a week or so after we did. We've pretty much never seen them again. They put a soaker hose down and show up every once in a while to harvest stuff. That's it. Here's what their garden looks like:



I spend a couple of hours a week weeding, and we hand water almost every day. I carefully pinch off the tomato blossoms until the plant is prepared to sustain the fruit. Here's what our garden looks like:



My questions and concerns, I believe, are obvious. We are planting on virtually the same ground. We are offering them free soil out of the goodness of our hearts. We work the land, as opposed to allowing the land work for us, and the ability to sweat from our brows has been tested and proven. The weeds have afflicted us and tormented us, and yet we persist. Why this cursed plot, then? How am I supposed to make my own ketchup and salsa and canned tomatoes to last through the difficult winter months?

There can be only one solution: those people won't notice a few missing tomatoes. They've already got hundreds. I mean, it's our water, our soil, and our generosity that has enabled them to grow anything at all. So a little midnight harvesting is in order, I think.