TIM BELFORD

Your basic Tall Tomato story

I was born, as they say, with dirt under my fingernails.

I come from a long line of farmers. Mind you, some of them, along the way, also picked up a better-than-average education.

Nevertheless, many of my first memories involve growing or picking a variety of fruit and vegetables. Peaches, plums, apples, pears, grapes, cherries -- you name it and I picked it.

Except for strawberries. I draw the line at strawberries. Too much bending.

The point is, I've always grown things. I've always had a garden . . . except for the last few years.

Living in apartments and condominiums tends to put a damper on the agricultural spirit. But I figured I had the problem beat when the love of my life introduced me to cherry tomatoes.

Ideal for the balcony she said. Grow it in a pot she said. Virtually no space she said. Just a little water she said.

She had obviously never read Jack and the Bean Stalk.

What started out as a perfectly good solution to balcony vegetation quickly turned into the Beast that devoured Brooklyn.

The plant grew a foot the first week. By week two it was up to my waist.

At that point it was taking about six gallons of water a day.

By week three I had begun to prune it.

By the time it started to flower it was chest height.

We tried staking it. We even used one of those circular metal trellis affairs. To no avail.

It continued to grow.

I laid awake at night, visions of the "Little Shop of Horrors" dancing in my head.

You could almost hear it whispering, "Feed me!"

It may be my imagination, but I'm sure there were fewer insects on the balcony. That summer.

And the neighbour's cat who had been a regular visitor to our back door suddenly disappeared.

Through it all, the plant continued to grow.

Oh, it wasn't without fruit. On the contrary, we could barely keep up with the number of tiny tomatoes that it kept producing.

But it wouldn't stop.

We tied new lengths of wood to the original stakes. When the plant moved upward we replaced the wooden stakes with metal rods.

When it reached seven feet I tied the plant to the hook that held the clothes line to the wall.

And still it grew.

It got to the point where I was considering an exorcism. But thankfully, A Autumn intervened.

And, as with all plant life, it gave up the ghost.

All I can say, is it was the first time I was glad to see the end of the growing season.

And this year we're relying on something called a "Tiny Tim."