Tomatoes are a huge thing in our family.  The tomatoes that John and I grew ten years ago died frightful deaths in spite of our spending at least twenty minutes a day lovingly flooding them with water.   One of the first things my mother asked for when she arrived at our house a few months ago was "Where can I plant a tomato plant?".  John has always had a tremendous love of tomatoes.  John's mother tells me that when he was little, she would buy bags filled with tomatoes on Long Island, and John and his twin brother would eat the tomatoes right out of the bags like apples.

So, when we decided to have a plot in the community garden, the one unquestionable fact was that we were going to have tomato plants.

I am still intensely intimidated by tomato plants -- I'm intimidated by all plants, actually, since I manage to kill even the most indestructible plants.  I don't have self-confidence that a tomato plant will survive under my care.

A couple of weeks ago, after dredging the spring and installing the pump at the gardens in preparation for the upcoming growing season, Joe asks us, "So what are you planning to plant next on your plot?"

"Well, tomatoes for one...." we answer him.

"Would you like some tomato plants?  We have a couple of extra seedlings that need homes."  He's just changed into street shoes and is throwing a pair of gardening boots caked in dried mud into the back of his truck.

I know Mom's waiting for us at home with lunch but I can't resist the chance to get free tomato seedlings since that's precisely what we had intended to shop for that very afternoon.
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We head towards Joe's home by way of the Harvard town dump where he teaches us all about the finer points of dump shopping for tomato poles.  He reminds us that not only the metal pile, but also the "Put and Take" section are decent spots for collecting gardening supplies.  A man next to us at the metal pile is demolishing a coffeemaker for parts.  He banters with Joe, calling him by his first name.

Now owners of four approximately 7-foot metal poles and a coat rack that I rescued from John's hands (It'll become a dog leash rack for my hundreds of dog leashes), we follow Joe to his house.

Joe and Deb D'Eramo

Joe and Deb D'Eramo have an impressive vegetable garden at the back of their yard.  It is nestled on two sides by trees and on the third side by a row of blueberry bushes which are covered in bloom.  The garden consists of three separate fenced areas which contain a total of eight trellises and at least twelve Square-Foot-Garden beds.

One-foot-square grids, marked by string, makes for a precise layout for planting within the Square-Foot-Garden beds.  The plants and soil can be worked from outside the beds since every grid is within easy reach.  This keeps the soil pristinely loose and the plants safe from accidental footfalls.  In between the beds Lumite Greenhouse Floor Covering gives the entire area a nice, neat sense of order.

The trellises average seven feet tall and twelve feet wide.  "One hundred percent of the metal", Joe tells us through his infectious chuckle, "is from the metal pile at the town dump".  At the height of the growing season the vines climb over the tops of the trellises.

Among the community garden crowd, a surprising number of people also have gardens at their homes.  I've polled some of these people to see what would motivate someone to maintain two completely separate gardens.  Better soil, greater sun exposure, and protection from deer and woodchucks are some of the reasons that people give me.  The underlying common theme that brings people out of their homes and into the gardens, though, is the community of the gardens.

Strawberries, rhubarb, chives, peas, spinach, mint, arugula, and kale which are already planted and thriving, and a host of various potted plants that sit nearby awaiting transplanting give John and me a hint of the extravaganza to come.

"On summer evenings Deb and I like to sit on that bench and drink wine," Joe tells us, pointing to a wooden garden bench which is currently occupied by a couple of empty flower pots.  I can see Joe and Deb sitting on that bench, hands covered with soil, sipping wine like two magical garden gnomes, mythical creatures who spend their days tending and nurturing the plants of the earth.  There must be such a great sense of satisfaction in being so intimately a part of nature -- something neither words nor any art in all of history has ever truly captured adequately.

I walk around the rest of their yard.  My senses are bombarded with fragrances, colors, and leaves of all shapes and sizes shimmering in the breeze.  A chorus of birdsong tells me that Mother Nature approves of my intrusion into Her space.  I resist the urge to plant myself on the stone bench that sits in a small garden nook and meditate along with the garden Buddha who sits not too far away.

After showing us his garden, Joe sends us home with nine tomato saplings and a bucket of compost with instructions to make sure the root nubs which are starting to show on the stem be submerged beneath the soil so that the plant has stronger roots.  The plants turn back and look at Joe, their arms reaching out to him, as we place them on the car seat and slam the door.  Their lives are in our hands now.