Here come the catalogs, here come the catalogs, right down Catalog Lane -- which seems to end at my doorstep. Ever since Christmas, the postman has been putting seed catalogs in our mailbox, three or four at a time. Sometimes the catalogs are jammed in there so tight that I have to dismantle the mailbox to get them out. Then I have to summon my wife to put the darn thing back together again.
Where do all these brochures come from? There are fat catalogs and skinny ones, in color and black-and-white. Some have big, bold photos of perfectly shaped flowers and vegetables, the kind we never seem to grow. My zinnias suffer from mildew, and thrips attack my roses. But seed catalogs are always pest-free. I've never seen a bug on the cover of one, except for the time I smashed a housefly with a Burpee catalog.
The vegetables in these brochures look luscious, too: fat, juicy carrots and blocky bell peppers with nary a blemish. Where do they grow such perfect foods? Are there modeling schools for fruits and veggies? Do eggplants spend hours putting on makeup before these photo sessions? Check out the pictures of the sweet corn. There's not a crooked kernel in the bunch. My teeth should be so straight. Did all this corn wear braces?
Skip ahead to the zucchinis. See the man in the picture? He is standing in the garden, holding one zucchini. The man is smiling. Why is he smiling? Because his zucchinis ripen one at a time. How can that be? All of my zukes ripen at once, regardless of variety. So I lug an armful from the garden and head for my neighbor's house, a frantic look on my face as I see him coming toward me carrying the same sea of green.
Why don't the catalogs capture that image?
Excuse me while I drool over the tomatoes -- plump red fruit that makes me want to tear out the pictures and place them between two pieces of bread. My tomatoes never look this good. My tomatoes are homely things, splotchy, misshapen blobs, with marks that look like liver spots and the oddest growths you've ever seen. They'll never pose for catalog centerfolds. My tomatoes belong on the cover of some supermarket tabloid under the headline: "Man's Tomato Grows Nose (And Other Body Parts)."
Don't get me wrong, I love my tomatoes. They taste great, though I am a bit squeamish about eating their limbs. But my Early Girl tomatoes will never win a beauty contest, despite my best efforts. Just once I'd like to grow a tomato that looks like it should walk on stage instead of being thrown at one.
I've tried to raise flowers and fruit like those found in catalogs, to no avail. Once I even cut out the photos, glued them to Popsicle sticks and stuck them in the garden where plants could see them. I'd hoped the plants would be impressed by the photos and try to emulate them -- a process known as photosynthesis.
Alas, my plan failed. Rabbits ate the pictures of the plants, and our dog chewed up the Popsicle sticks.
Through the years I've become resigned to the fact that my plants seldom measure up to those in brochures. (I did grow a perfect rose once, or so I'm told. It bloomed while I was away on vacation. A neighbor noticed the rose and described it upon our return. I thanked him while cutting the dead flower.)
First-time gardeners are a starry-eyed lot. They leaf through catalogs with gusto, checking off everything that catches their eye. They ogle the pictures and empty their wallets, intent on raising the floral equivalent of a Cindy Crawford. Too often, however, they wind up with a garden full of geeky-looking plants.
Discouraged, some of these people throw in the trowel. They figure they're garden misfits, which just isn't so. All these folks need are tips on choosing the right plants.
For instance, many new gardeners are so enamored of pictures in catalogs that they skip the accompanying text. Many failures can be averted by reading the fine print, to wit: "Easy-to-grow flowers . . . require minimal care . . . spray daily using pesticides with names containing 12 syllables or more."
Frankly, I'm not depressed that my plants look like wallflowers beside those in catalogs. If my flowers and vegetables were picture-perfect, I'd feel guilty about picking them. So I'd stand outside admiring them until they turned brown and died.
' That's depressing.