LETTERS: ANOTHER TRIBUTE TO TOMATOES

To the editor:

Some weeks ago, I was surfing the Internet looking for information on tomatoes. This if the first growing season that I have been online, so it was of interest to me to see what could be found here in the states and around the world. Needless to say, the information available was voluminous, almost a bit overwhelming, but a lot of fun nevertheless, and some of it in languages that I could read.

My most rewarding find, however, was Joe Sullivan's piece, "O glorious passion fruit, thy name is tomato." It impressed me so that I made several copies to pass on to others of our sort whose lives would be made richer by having a copy of their own.

In my youth, while growing up in southern Germany, my parents indicated that the best soil for tomatoes was in the Bavarian countryside. Later on, after we had transitioned to our first American home in Kansas City, I discovered that midwestern soil was excellent for raising a good crop. Still later, I am now convinced that the most serious successes as a gardener have been happening over the last few years right here on the southern California soil in Garden Grove.

About the time Sullivan was busy penning his adorations of the passion fruit last year, I had a tomato-growing experience that prompted me to render it in poetic expression. I thought you might enjoy reading it.

Who Got the First Brandywine?

In spring, when the ground still shivers from winter's frost,

With spade and shovels my garden soil gets tossed

To ready beds for plants that will be growing tall

With heavy fruit -- some large and some quite small.

With luck, there'll be enough for all.

Some seedlings seem more frail than others in the group.

A sturdy pole and strengthened by a loop

They soon stand straight as if to say,

"Let's hurry on to sunny days in May --

These April days are days of gray."

At first the growth is slight, but then with zest

The blooms appear: bright yellow, at their best.

Will they hang on despite the cold and wind?

Alas, amidst the clouds, the sun breaks through to lend

A warm and life-supporting helping hand.

Some weeks have passed as flowers turned to fruit:

Three in a bunch, or five, or one, or two.

The daily tasks of pest control, of staking and much more

Does stress the body while the back gets sore

And yearns for easy-going days of yore.

To hold the heavy vines while they are stretching for the sun,

I've built a trellis house complete with roof. What fun!

While standing underneath, I reach up high to touch and hold

The pinkish mass I've intimately grown to know.

My Brandywines, so elegant and oh so bold.

By now, the silhouette of one exceeds just 16 inches.

Deep color means a ripening that responds to soft pinches

And beckons a picking tomorrow at noon.

A few last glimpses under the bright and full moon.

The aroma, the delight, to taste it real soon.

At dawn, while checking things through gardener's eyes,

I cam upon a scene so filled with horror and surprise

That I sink near the trellis, rest in disbelief,

To sort the feelings of my newfound grief.

How could the joy of picking be so brief?

A creature of the night had found my treasure

There, in the moonlight, to munch with great pleasure,

Leaving me the stem and some chunks here and there.

For me, it was simply to much to bear.

It just doesn't seem fair.

GUDRUM F. TUNE

Garden Grove, Calif.