Nestled deep in the vegetable patch, protected by a thick blanket of straw, a tiny tomato plant struggles upward in the cold. Its tender leaves, curled by harsh November winds, peek out above the mulch, beckoning the summer sun that this seedling will never see.
My tomato, a spunky plant that popped up on its own last month, will not last the winter. I haven't the heart to tell it so. Nor can I stand by and watch such a determined little plant succumb to a killing frost. So I nudge it along in the garden, providing food, water and warmth, knowing full well the tomato's days are numbered.
The robust plant will never bear fruit, but at least I can prolong its life -- and my own memories of summer.
In the front yard, a lonely young zinnia peers over a bed of shredded leaves. It, too, is an orphan, spawned by a plant long since zapped by frost.
Like the tomato, the little zinnia arrived late in the year, with great expectations and lousy timing. Its early growth was curbed by the cold; the plant has not grown since October.
The zinnia will probably never flower. Yet I do my best to egg it nurturing the foot-high plant, fertilizing it and surrounding the stem with a cozy mound of leaf mold for protection on frigid nights. In bitter cold, I cover the zinnia with an empty coffee can, over which I drape an old blanket. Come morning, if the temperature is above freezing, I uncover the plant before leaving for work, or arrange for someone else to do so later in the day.
Of course, I am postponing the inevitable. Tomatoes and zinnias are tender annuals that normally wither at the first sign of winter. I cannot mollycoddle them forever. Eventually the mercury will plummet and blitz everything but the evergreens. My covered plants will die before their prime. Why bother then? Why fuss with plants whose bloom is doomed?
To keep alive the sights and smells of summer.
Christmas is coming, but the pungent scent of that tomato plant reminds me of the Fourth of July. Though my zinnia is not a Christmas flower, I wouldn't trade it for all the potted poinsettias in the market. Zinnias are green time machines that conjure up images of barefoot walks, bumblebees and summer rain.
I want to hang onto those thoughts as long as I can.
This is standard behavior for me. Each year I pick two warm-weather plants -- one flower, one vegetable -- to try to nurse through winter. Only tender annuals are eligible. Forget cold-blooded plants such as pansies and kale which, while easily grown, are autumnal specimens and evoke no recollections of summer.
My selections are always "volunteers," those plant waifs from wind-blown seeds that appear without warning in the fall garden. (Why do they germinate then? Has Mother Nature tinkered with their hardiness genes?)
This year's choices are tomatoes and zinnias; last winter, it was zucchini and marigolds. Another time, I tried bush beans and impatiens.
Most of them are gone by Thanksgiving; a few make it to December. The longest I ever kept one of these plants alive was Christmas Eve, when a stubborn cucumber vine passed away. But not before producing one tasty, slender young cuke, which we sliced v-e-r-r-y thin for Christmas dinner.
None of my plants has survived to the new year, despite my best efforts. I mound the soil around each plant to protect its tender roots. I cover the ground with sheets of black plastic, which absorb the sun's heat.
I cover the plants with flowerpots and tin cans; bundle them in blankets and old coats; and surround them with "forts" made of straw, leaves and old grass clippings, to stave off winter winds. Once, on a blustery night when all else failed, I completely encircled a tiny begonia with four filled garbage cans. The plan would have worked if a raccoon hadn't gotten into the trash and knocked the lid on top of the plant, flattening the poor thing.
What more can I do? They don't make mittens for marigolds, or scarves for squash.
I've considered staying up all night with the plants, while holding something to keep them warm. A lighted match, perhaps. Or a hair dryer with a very long cord. The electric bill wouldn't be all that high.
Is it so great a price to keep summer alive?