It had been a cloudy covered, rainy summer, and exceptionally cold. I had rationalized that all was going well there in my garden, all things considered. But that was before I took tea with my new neighbor, from whose side of the hedge had been seen and heard a great deal of gardening activity.

For exactly one decade that long neglected property had shared, from underground, over fence, through hedges, even down from trees - every tenacious weed and vine imaginable. Every Spring the assault would begin with gout weed and akebia, soon to be followed b choke weed and kudzu. The final chilling weeks of autumn had always found me furiously employed in the business of digging up perennials and extricating creamy white gout weed roots. Now that adjoining house and garden had a new mistress and I looked forward to easier times. But inspite of the commotion, the grunting and heaving of stones, the flying dirt and an occasional chipper greeting directed to me from the other side, it became clear that Jenny was occupied elsewhere on her property. I continued to fight the war of the weeds.

The invitation to English Tea was extended via a witty little note attached to the garden gate. Tea was preceded by an exhaustive tour of Jenny's fledgling cottage garden. Naming Latin names, with arched wrist and fully extended forefinger, the slender Jenny triumphantly introduced her uncommonly beautiful perennials and abundantly flowering annuals. Randomly placed vegetables included a celebration of lush tomato plants and peppers, burgeoning Swiss chard, shy lettuce, and flowering zucchini. Blossoming vines clambered up the walls of the dilapidated stone carriage house with enormous enthusiasm. Newly painted, old Adirondack chairs were scattered throughout and remnants of stone artifacts peeked from between plants. And here and there, one caught sight of an old brick embedded into the soil. Altogether, a wild and enchanting place. I was dismayed.

Jenny, a psychologist, spoke sweetly of future plans for her garden. I smiled. As the more experienced gardener, one familiar with the terrain, I generously seized every opportunity to advise. As it happened, Jenny's new garden was wedged between the carriage house to the west and two towering magnolias to the east - and received very little direct sun. I suggested that she move the entire garden elsewhere, murmuring, "It's really too bad. All of that work......" With my little index finger extended, I finished the tea and expressed my appreciation with as much conviction as I could muster. Then I retreated through the gate to confront my own garden - and a few very depressing facts: Jenny's nearly sunless garden was lush. And happy. I had not failed to notice (nor had I been permitted to) - that Jenny's nearly sunless garden flaunted fully ripe tomatoes.

Now, at dusk, looking down upon my garden from my bedroom window, I could see my tomatoes, peppers, zucchini squash and beans all lines up in stuffy little rows. My worst fears were confirmed. I could definitely see more brown dirt than foliage. I felt as small and green as my barely visible tomatoes. With a sigh, I went to bed.

Hours later I was awakened by noises in the garden below, strange, gritty, humming noises. I went to the window. My puny green tomatoes were quivering in the rain. "They must be growing," I thought, my dashed hopes rising. "And high time, too!"

I grabbed a robe and ran downstairs into the garden. The humming stopped as I approached but the soft summer drizzle continued. I inhaled the green and said, "It is a pleasure to see some activity down here for a change. You guys are very late in coming. And we have a new gardener in the neighborhood who has thrown down the gauntlet. What goes?"

Silence.

"Look here," I said. "Every year I have to compete with my Italian neighbors whose tomatoes leap off the vine and into canning jars at the spoken word. Now we have this lady shrink who probably uses biofeedback instead of sunlight. Help me out here!"

They looked up at me, glowing greenly in the rain. "Why wasn't this earth amended before we got here?" They wined in perfect unison, "Where is the cow manure? Your two dogs crapping in the garden does not constitute fertilization! Where is the Miracid? Why haven't we been checked for white fly? And, for pity's sake, where is the sun? You stuck us in the ground and left us here to drown!"

I reflected for a moment and decided to change the subject. "That was a strange and lovely sound I heard coming from all of you just now," I said evenly. "I've never heard that song before. Tell me about it."

"It was not a song. And not lovely," they chanted. "What you heard were sounds of restraint. We realized as the sun set last evening that one of use was beginning to blush. We shook her off the vine and fed her to the slugs. The rest of us will constrain ourselves to stay green."

Horrified, I asked, "Are you saying that you will never ripen?"

"Come back in December," they grumped.

Stunned, I turned away as they resumed their granular hum. I made my way to the back porch, into the kitchen, upstairs and to bed. Hours later I awoke smiling. "Fresh tomatoes for Christmas dinner," I mused. "Wait 'til Jenny hears about this!"