& It has recently been brought to my attention that there are those among you who doubt whether there is any glimmer of greenness in my thumb. Granted, there is some evidence to warrant your betting against my winning a blue ribbon at the Rio Arriba County Fair’s Farmer-of-the-Year competition, even though there will be only two entries.
That evidence includes such things as:
- My irrigation plan. I open the floodgates to my field only when there is no threat of mosquitoes, as in the period November -February.
- My main crop — weeds — is not healthy. Probably needed: more water.
- The numerous rocks, gopher holes, anthills and strange-looking mounds of weird grasses, all of which make mechanical harvesting of crops, should there be any, impossible.
- The hole in the side of my stock pond, rendering it a waterless, muddy mess that no proud frog would even approach.
OK, so forget me as a farmer. But don’t doubt — not for a second — my abilities as a grower. I can grow, for example, mold on the cheddar in my refrig and in the forgotten coffee cup on the bookcase. Along with the irreplaceable assistance of my horses, I can grown great swarms of flies — all sorts of flies, from fat black dirigibled horse flies to teeny-tiny no-see-um nasties that burrow deep into your ears, sounding like very loud, insistent, untuned Vespas. And I can grow dust bunnies; I’m going to rename my place Watership Down.
And lately, I have become a horticulturist. I have grown tomatoes.
So, please, let us hear no more tittering, whispering and chuckling.
& Promising a slice from one of my five tomatoes to the first three people through the door, I’m outta here.