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The Harmonics of Bees By Alex Moody Email: amoody at gmail dot com (above email address formatted to reduce spam) July 17, 2008 The project started with forty-eight Dixie cups, a sack of dirt, and four varieties of tomato seeds. The Dixie cups had cartoon animals on them and the animals spoke in Spanish via curvy thought balloons. The dirt: organic. The seeds: heirloom. I spent a Sunday afternoon using a tablespoon to make warm, moist beds for individual seeds. I poked a hole in the bottom of each cup to allow for drainage. I placed the cups in trays, and I arranged the trays under fluorescent grow lights. I waited. Sprouts appeared after a few days. A week or two later the plants had grown at least one full leaf. They yearned for the grow lights, reaching skyward. Lightward. Some plants on the outskirts of the trays made a decision—to angle away from artificial light toward a window across the room. My advisor, a book called "How to Grow Giant Tomatoes," recommended thinning the herd. "Roughly half of the seedlings," it said, "will not sprout or won't otherwise reach maturity." Giant tomato math is cold. "Keep only the strongest plants, six or seven, and give the rest away." I looked at the trays and tried to decide how many responsible people I knew, and whether it would be dishonest or misleading to give them the runts. I already had my favorites marked, and already felt guilty for judging the others. When the seedlings met the grow lights and clasped their newest leaves to the bulbs I transplanted them to larger pots made of peat. "These are your big boy beds," I said. I imagined their roots stretching comfortably after bracing themselves and feeling along the boundaries of the Dixie cups. The fifteen chosen plants received prime position under the lights. One by one the others withered. I followed my book's instructions as faithfully as I could. The excerpts from experienced growers mentioning underground watering systems and compost recipes revealed a level of detail and obsession I knew I'd never attain. Still, I "hardened" my plants by exposing them to the elements for several hours each day. I trimmed their leaves to control growth. I chose large pots as permanent homes because my yard's soil is mostly sand, and I searched quite awhile for fish emulsion before giving up, afraid to ask a home improvement store cashier for something that sounded so indecent. The plants waved at passers-by from my porch . "Your tomatoes look great," said a neighbor, and I did my best impersonation of a nonplussed farmer. "Mmm-hmm," I said. "They look alright." I swore I'd continue to be unimpressed even when I was holding a basket of ripe tomatoes, as if the outcome was expected and natural, as if a neighbor's surprise and delight were insults. Of course I was pleased by compliments. Last year I started a similar project and never got past phase one. My seedlings decided they didn't belong in this world. When this new batch of plants looked parched, I was right there with a watering can. When storms rumbled, I moved the flock into the garage. I thought people might steal them, and I regarded everyone with more suspicion than usual. Planting day. Six large pots, two strong plants from each heirloom variety. Cuostralee. Big Rainbow. Pineapple. I labeled. I staked. I positioned the pots in two rows with a companion planting of marigolds in the middle. The marigolds, supposedly, stink. They drive away horrible-sounding bugs like tomato hornworms. And they provided a beautiful central plaza to the place I called Tomato Town. Dragonflies are often attracted to places like Tomato Town because the stakes supporting each plant resemble the reeds and tall grasses around ponds. I nicknamed the largest one "The Mayor." He held himself differently from the other dragonflies. He was larger and his green and blue luminescence more striking. I felt comfortable each morning I found him perched near the marigold plaza. There was nothing afoot, and if something or someone did get out of line I was sure The Mayor would handle the situation quickly and with benevolence. He didn't fly away when I walked among the plants. First come blooms, then come tomatoes. When the yellow bursts appeared I started spending even more time in Tomato Town, often in a state of wonder. The plants came from a seed smaller than a cookie crumb. Now they were five feet tall. I ran my hands over the vines—they felt like pipecleaners—and waited for the day when I'd find my first tomato, pale green and bewildered. The tomatoes didn't come. My book listed two likely problems: 1) it was too humid during the day, and the pollen in the tomato flowers became too sticky, or 2) it was so warm at night that the fruit just didn't set. I didn't want to accept what felt like a shrug of the shoulders. "Well," the book seemed to say, "sometimes this happens." My mother called about this time and said, casually, "Oh, and I have a few small tomatoes on those plants you gave me." A neighbor reported similar success. Both relayed the same facts about plant location and climate. Hot and humid? Yes. Full sun? Yes. Did you use fertilizer? No. Miracle Gro? Are you sure? No. Yes. I struggled with the realization that out of fifteen plants, six were producing tomatoes and nine were not. The six belonged to other people now. The nine lived in Tomato Town. I searched for answers. Tomatoes self-pollinate. Bees can help because in their bumping about they jostle pollen, just gently enough to ease the granules along the path to fertilization. I hadn't seen any bees. "You can assist with the process," I read in an article, "if you imagine that you are a bee. Put your finger on a blossom and try to remember what it looks like when a bee is buzzing around a flower. Try to create that same frequency or harmonic, and you'll knock pollen out as if you were a bee." I had no recollection of what, specifically, a bee did around a flower. I couldn't guess at frequency or harmonics. I started out with light taps, mid-afternoon, as directed. Tap tap tap on each flower. I ignored the people who could see across their backyards into mine, the ones who must have wondered how I came to be insane. I read about tomato anatomy. I blew lightly on blossoms, hoping to guide pollen from stamens to pistils. Knowing that tomatoes were growing elsewhere lessened my patience. After two or three days of tapping and blowing yielded no fruit, I starting shaking the stakes supporting my plants. It was faster than tapping the individual flowers and it was also more satisfying. I understood why parents wanted to throttle uncooperative children—there is a sense that a heightened level of physicality will get a point across. There is no boundary to my neuroticism. I regretted discussing the tomato salmonella scare so much. What if they heard me? What if the tomato plants decided they couldn't bear to bring fruit into the world now, that it was frightening and dangerous? My parents and friends, they don't watch the news. They wouldn't have brought up salmonella. They probably didn't even talk to the plants and even if they do have tomatoes they are bound to be puny due to a lack of stimulation. Then I wondered: Had I cursed Tomato Town because I don't want children? Was this a cosmic gesture or joke? Was I doomed to a life of infertile backyard vegetable plants, at least until I brought out a small, tender fruit of my own as an offering? Until I placed a baby in a bed of marigolds? Until The Mayor blessed the child with a kiss of his wings? Until I brushed a baby's hand against a blossom with bee-like harmonics, thereby setting into motion the magic of fertilization? Was this—the months-long buildup of plant and town, the blossoming and growth, the hint of a sputtering, barren end —a glimpse of my future? I had to leave Tomato Town without a resolution. A two-week road trip beckoned. An unreliable gardener remained behind. "Water them every two or three days," I said. "But not too much. Please don't forget." "Okay, okay," she said. "I'll try not to kill them." A week passed. The trip distracted me, but not completely. I dreamed of Tomato Town, and it was full of dragonflies and bees and Cuostralees and Rainbows. I spoke with my surrogate keeper one night and forgot to ask about the plants. I remembered after I hung up the phone, but couldn't call back. It was late, it was silly, it was going to be too disappointing. I fell back on to a bed in a hotel room and stared at the ceiling. My phone chirped once. There was a text message. "Almost forgot," it said. "We have TOMATOES." I am not sure what became of The Mayor. About the author: I live in South Carolina. I write, I plant, I fantasize about dragonflies. You can read more about Tomato Town at moodytunes.com. | | | |
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