Mr. Earl was standing at the property line with his hands in his back pockets when I came out with the last tomato plant. He watched me set it in the hole, shook his head a little at how deep I'd put it, and then said he reckoned he could water them while we were gone. I didn't even have to ask. That is how most things get settled out here.
Our garden is small on purpose. We put it in the last week of May, a little late by my mother's standards, along the sunny side of the yard where the sandy ground drains fast. This year it's six tomato plants, a row of okra and four pepper plants. Wes says it's two rows of okra because he counts the short one by the shed. I count it as one row with ambitions.
I kept the receipts in a separate envelope, not the trip envelope, because the garden comes out of the grocery money. Here is what we spent:
- Six tomato plants from a farm stand outside Laurinburg: $15
- Four pepper plants: $8
- Okra seed: $4
- Two bags of garden soil for the tomato holes: $9
- A roll of twine and a pack of new stakes: $11
That's $47. Last summer we got enough tomatoes for sandwiches from late June through August, a few batches of stewed okra and tomatoes, and more peppers than we could give away. I didn't weigh any of it, but I know we bought almost no tomatoes from the store for two months, and that alone covers it.
Why the trips make the garden harder
This is the first summer we've had a garden and a monthly trip at the same time. In July around here it runs in the mid-90s, and our sandy ground will dry out in a day and a half without rain. Tomatoes don't care that you're at the beach. Okra cares even less, because if nobody picks it for two days the pods get as tough as a broom handle.
We have trips coming in June, including a long drive up the Blue Ridge Parkway, and then a cabin weekend later in the month. So this year the garden needed a plan before it needed fertilizer.
The neighbor arrangement
Mr. Earl is in his mid-70s and farmed tobacco and soybeans most of his life. He still gets up before the sun. He doesn't have a garden of his own anymore because, as he puts it, he grew enough vegetables for one lifetime. But he likes to have something to check on.
Here's how we set it up:
The garden hose stays hooked to the spigot by the carport, coiled on the ground where he can reach it without coming up on the porch. Our water comes from our well, so the pump stays on when we're gone during garden season. I showed him which way the spigot turns, which he found very funny since he has probably turned more spigots than I have.
I text him before we leave with the dates and what's ripe. He doesn't text back. He calls, usually once, to tell me it rained.
Anything ripe while we're gone is his. That's the main payment. He likes a tomato sandwich as much as anybody, and he says okra is the only vegetable that's honest about being slimy.
The other payment is a souvenir from every trip. Nothing expensive, usually a jar of something: honey, chow-chow, a local jam, pepper jelly. He lines them up on a shelf in his kitchen and tells people where each one came from. I suspect he likes the jars more than the tomatoes.
A few things I'd tell anyone trying this
Water deep before you leave. We soak everything Friday morning before we pull out, so the plants start the weekend full.
Mulch. We put down straw around the tomatoes this year, a bale left over from Wes's brother's place. It keeps the sandy soil from drying out so fast.
Plant less than you think. Six tomato plants is plenty for two people who leave every few weekends. A bigger garden would mean a bigger favor, and I don't want Mr. Earl spending his whole Saturday on our yard.
Pick everything you can the night before. Even if it isn't quite ready, a slightly green tomato on the windowsill beats a split one on the vine.
So far, so good. The plants are in, the stakes are up and Mr. Earl has already come over twice to look at them, which I take as approval. The first jar for his shelf will come from the mountains in a couple of weeks.
