I couldn’t have been more than about three years old when I began to take more of an interest in the great outdoors. And in particular, the enormous back garden of the house I grew up in. My memories suggest that the house too was enormous, but then again that perception might just be because I was awfully little at the time and so everything was comparatively bigger. A bit like Wagon Wheels. But I digress.
The back garden was home to many wonders of nature. Grass, flowers, plants of all shapes and colours and sizes. Much to interest a young mind – and of course, what toddler doesn’t want to help out and make sure that the garden is in good order?
The idea that it was possible to plant things in the soil, which would then turn into miraculous plants, flowers, space hoppers, and sturdy oak trees, was of course one which I found interesting. And so it was that I decided that I wanted my own patch of soil where I too could plant things.
I had become aware that it was possible to plant the tops of carrots in the ground, and that new carrots would grow as a result. I’m not sure how I obtained this knowledge, because I certainly don’t remember this ever happening. But nonetheless, the principle was good. Food comes from the ground.
My grandfather grew food in the greenhouse. This seemed like a good place for food to grow, but I was not always allowed into the greenhouse, so I would have to plant my food outside, in my own small patch of soil by the front door. My young mind saw no reason why these endeavours should not be equally successful.
Grandad grew tomatoes – or so I thought – in his greenhouse. I had not noticed them before, but one day, there they were. Since tomatoes must therefore be fast and easy to grow, I decided that I too would plant tomatoes. I don’t recall the exact mechanics of how I did this. Perhaps I asked for some seeds, perhaps I buried a tomato sandwich, or still more likely, maybe I just put a carrot top in the ground and expected it to become what I wanted. In those days I was used to things almost always turning out exactly as I expected.
I patted down the soil, watered it vigorously, and waited. Day after day I checked back, continuing the vigorous watering as I did so. (Plants need water, and hoses are fun to play with, so the double bonus rule applies.) But it seems that progress was slow in coming. A day is a long time when you’re three, so I’m quite sure that after three or four days, I would have been immeasurably upset and disappointed that my mighty tomato tree was not growing correctly. Perhaps it just needed more water.
I did not have much longer to wait, though, for it was not long after that my regular check of my heavily-watered patch of outdoor soil revealed that an entire tomato had grown, seemingly overnight. A very small tomato, admittedly, but a tomato nonetheless. Delighted with my horticultural achievement, I used my green fingers to expertly pick up the tomato from the soil upon which it laid. (Not, you will notice, any kind of vine. A professional tomato-grower would have noticed the absence right away.)
I proudly showed the tomato to the first available parent. I could tell that they were as impressed as I was, but apparently I had made an error in picking the tomato too soon – I was supposed to wait a while so that it would grow to be big and strong. We therefore returned the small tomato to the soil, watered it some more, and waited for another day.
The next day, the tomato had grown! Despite having been ‘picked’ from a vine that wasn’t there, an issue of minor detail which does not concern the busy three-year-old horticulturalist, my single tomato was coming along in leaps and bounds. I could tell that I had a fine career ahead of me. The following day, it was larger and larger still until I could take it no more and insisted upon consuming the tasty treat. As it turned out, I don’t think I liked tomatoes very much – that might have had something to do with being three years old, and quite a fussy eater even for that age.
Even so, my pride at having grown my own food was immense. I was pleased for many years afterwards.
It was not until a very long time later that the truth was discovered. My well-meaning parents had considered my constant visits to my well-watered patch of mud to be so endearing that they felt they could not leave me without the kind of result that my impatient young mind was seeking. And once again, my blissful naivety was targeted in another sinister operation.
A small cherry tomato was purchased from the supermarket, and placed in the corner of my budding allotment when I was not looking. The illusion that I had grown this was eagerly accepted. But how could the tomato continue to grow? Surely this was proof of my endeavours? No. Each day, again when I was not looking, probably when I was deep in blissful, ignorant, angelic sleep, the tomato of the day was switched with a slightly larger tomato.
Hook, line, and sinker. I didn’t find out for years.
I think I’m going to cry.
No comments:
Post a Comment