Open Writing

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Tomato time

'It's nothing to brag about,' he said, modestly.

It wouldn't win any prizes at the fair for size or appearance. But that's okay with me. I just want to announce that I picked a fully ripe tomato on July 1 from a plant in my backyard. It doesn't have blossom end blight, or sunscald, or cracks, or any of the other ills common to the earliest tomatoes to ripen. By the time this column reaches you, it will have become part of the Selby food supply.

Of course, that tomato plant must have been started about New Year's Day in the Crane Nursery greenhouse. When I bought the plant it had several tomatoes on it. But it has been growing at my place for some weeks now, nurtured by the knowledgeable hand of a 'credentialed' Master Gardener. Old gardeners may not be any more proficient at their hobby, but they are often skilled tricksters and misleaders of the gullible.

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Making an Impression

It's amazing what some people will do to make a great impression. Last week, two of the ladies who are part of Chip Werry's dental practice made really great impressions on me—in my mouth, that is. Due to a combination of heavy smoking, old age, and poor dental hygiene, I have just about as many teeth left as a badly carved Hallowe'en pumpkin. So the ladies made impressions as a necessary early step in getting me back in corn-on-the-cob condition before the season is over.

Getting old sure gets interesting.

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One Cassini, thin crust and extra cheese, please

Cassini. Sounds like the name of a new dish promoted by your local pizza parlor. Probably named after some famous scientist whose name almost everyone but me knows. I am not a rocket scientist. Of course, I wouldn't recognize the name of a famous hockey star, either. So it goes.
Now the way I understand it is, about seven years ago some scientists flung this space vehicle up in the air so hard and fast it ain't never going to come down again. It's about the size and weight of a '63 Volkswagen Beetle. Probably Candy Apple Red.

Then they sat down at their office in Florida, or Texas, or wherever, and started steering it towards Saturn. Which is a long ways off. Sometime in the last couple of weeks they realized it was about there, so they called the news folks in and started giving interviews when they got off shift. This lady named Ms. Porco, who comes from Queens, or someplace around New York, is the head photographer. They got some really neat photos.

But in order to get up close so they can get more good photo ops and do some measuring of other stuff, they had to slide their Cassini through this narrow space between two of Saturn's rings, and then get it slowed down enough to stay in orbit. To do that it had to twirl like a ballet dancer, with perfect timing, and stay out of the way of stray rocks and gravel, while moving 40,000 miles an hour. Not an easy trick for a Cassini.

Sort of like driving that Volkswagen from San Diego to Whitestown, pulling it into your Uncle George's driveway, turning around and backing it into the garage without hitting the lawnmower, knocking anything off the workbench, or running over the cat. All by remote control. Or so they claim.

Now if anybody tried to lay that story on me down at the neighborhood oasis, I'd be happy to set him up for the rest of the evening, just to honor his storytelling skills.

I'm not really interested in checking the facts. I'll settle for the story.

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Birds

I finally realized the hummingbirds weren't patronizing my feeders. When I checked, one feeder was empty and the other was way beyond sour. Figured I might have lost my clientele for the rest of the season. But I cleaned them, filled them, and hung them back out. In only an hour or two, a hummer showed up to do some cautious testing. Must have been from the Board of Health. Checked every spigot on each feeder. Before long, there was another hummer, then two. Next morning they were dropping in every time I looked, for a couple of hours.

An old friend called to ask if I had trouble with the feeders clogging up with black stuff. I do, frequently. Mold, I guess. The best tool I have found to get it out of cracks and crevices is a pipe cleaner. You have to keep the feeders clean, or they get so plugged up they won't flow. Of course, in hot weather the sugar water will start to sour in a week or so, unless you clean and refill the feeders. I only put in about a half-pint at a time. If you like, you can mix up your sugar water and refrigerate it in a quart fruit jar with a lid.

We thought the grackles had moved on, but there were a couple around yesterday. Maybe just passing through. Looking for ripe mulberry trees to color the splashes they put on your car. Flying graffiti artists. At least we don't have gulls.

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Gift from the City

Sometimes it seems that those of us who live outside the city enrich it a great deal, but don't receive much in return. But that's not always true.

For the last couple of weeks, our road has seen a daily parade of tractors hauling tank semitrailers. They all head north, and stop along a neighbor's field: an annual ritual for the past several years. Each trailer holds several thousand gallons of organic fertilizer to enrich our Boone County soil.

They are hauling it from the Indianapolis Sewage Disposal plant.

When you have a surplus, it's good to share.

© Jerry Selby