I AM A FARMER! Okay. I’m not. Starting 12 tomato plants indoors is not farming (though the definition of what a real farmer is can be many different things), but I am growing things. There is something so darn cool about putting a tiny seed in some dirt, splashing water on it and watching it grow into something green and fruitful.
My tomato babies are not ready to be released into the harsh mountain wilderness yet. There was a hard frost clinging to the north Idaho pastures surrounding my house this morning. I refuse to let all these mornings of remembering to water my egg carton and placing it in the living room window’s sun die at 32 degrees.
I’ve never started tomato plants in an egg carton before, so I’m anxious to see how they weather the transplant process when temperatures allow it. I’m hoping they thrive, but I’ll be happy as a June bug in May if they simply survive.
You see, I’m a notorious plant killer. The past five years anyway. I grew up in Iowa where God took care of all the watering. Out here? God expects me to do my own watering, and I’ve been known to forget on occasion. Unfortunately for the plants, those occasions often come one right after the other.
I’m hoping this year is different for my dozen tomato babies. They’ve already survived the dog stepping on them when I set them out for a little afternoon sunbathing session. They’ve survived the one or three times I missed showering them with love and H2O.
They can survive, I’m sure of it. These 12 little guys are troopers. Tomato troopers. And if one dies, I’m really hoping the rest will pick up his sword and carry on with the battle instead of diving in after him until no man is left alive.