It's easy: Click photo for instructions

In 1922, T.S. Eliot, apparently disillusioned by the changing world around him, wrote the poem, "The Waste Land." Its most well-known verse goes like this:

"April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain"

Who among us hasn't bred lilacs out of dead land? It's always so exciting when the garden wakes up in spring, when life springs forth from "dead land." So how is that cruel? I never really understood that part. Of course, I think Eliot was likely not talking about gardening, but using it as a metaphor for post-World War I Europe. If you think about it that way, I guess it can be a little bittersweet.

My lilacs are long gone, but my Phlox 'David' and Joe Pye weed 'Gateway' are springing forth, though not exactly from dead land. And the weeds -- some I can't even identify -- are springing forth, launching their own invasion on the area surrounding my tomatoes and basil and peppers and parsley. Oh, and they've just about filled the "maternity ward," a neglected area where I've been nursing stem cuttings and starting seeds.

And did I pull them out this weekend? I barely even stepped out into the garden, I'm sorry to say. Lazed around, mostly, on a rare and rainy 3-day weekend. Went shopping. Watched a few movies. Ate things I shouldn't have. And the weeds mixed memory with desire and laughed at me.

For instance, the June/July issue of Organic Gardening (OK, it's June/July 2007, but the information is still relevant) included a report on water conservation. Here are some statistics I picked up:

1. 80 to 100 Gallons: The amount of water used each day by the average American.

2. 227%: Increase in public water use in the United States from 1950 to 2000.

3. 89%: Population growth during that period.

4. 1%: Amount of the world’s water that is fresh water available for drinking and watering plants.

5. 40%: Percentage of fresh water used that is applied outdoors during the summer.

No. 4 had me doing a double take. Only 1% of all the water in the world is available for drinking and watering plants? The other 99% is unusable? How crazy is that? And moving on to No. 5, it follows that we use 40% of that 1% outdoors during summer? I love my plants as much as the next guy. Wait a minute -- I probably love my plants more than the next guy, but still, using 40% of the only usable 1% of water on outdoor plants seems a little wasteful, no? Though those figures surely include water used on farms, there's no reason I can't be a little frugal in my backyard.

I have an abundance of half-filled water bottles all over the house. And whenever I ask whose water it is, nobody seems to know. Instead of dumping the water down the drain, I've been emptying it into my planters and window boxes.

I suppose we could take this a step further and save cooking water for the garden. Neither water nor nutrients would go to waste. Plus, water used to boil eggs is full of calcium and can help prevent blossom end rot on tomato plants.

If you have any other creative uses for old water, or any ideas for conserving it, let me know.

That's all for now. But I might be back if I have time to tackle another pile.

My husband, John, is always hot. I mean sweat-dripping-down-his-face-in-65-degree-weather hot. He blasts the A/C and sleeps in shorts without a blanket. Me? I'm under two layers in my flannel PJs.

He's taken to running the air conditioner and two ceiling fans in the living room whenever he's home. If he spends two hours upstairs and I turn off the unit in his absence, he invariably complains when he comes back down.

I can wear a sweater, he says. If he's warm in shorts and a tank top, there's nothing less he can wear in polite society. So the onus is on me. But unless it's crazy humid outside, I'm an open-the-windows kind of girl. And therein lies the problem.

When we first moved into the house three years ago, there were three huge white pines dwarfing the house, right outside the front door. They were messy, spewing sap all over the front porch, garden bench and walkway. And they blocked the house completely. But in the heat of that first August, you couldn't help but notice -- and appreciate -- that when you walked from the driveway to the front door, you felt a drastic 10-degree temperature drop. It was nice. When I think about it in hindsight, we didn't really run the air conditioner as much that first summer. But when the vacuum cleaner became a permanent fixture in the foyer, I realized the trees had to go.

It's been a lot warmer in the house since. In fact, I read recently that shade trees can reduce electric bills for air conditioning by 15 to 50 percent.

And if you want to get all environmental about it, there's more: One tree can absorb the CO2 output from four cars every year, while producing enough oxygen for a family of four. In fact, planting trees remains the cheapest, most effective means of removing excess CO2 from the atmosphere.

According to the Bailey Nurseries Trees are Cool program, if every American family planted just one tree, the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere would be reduced by a billion pounds annually. This is almost 5 percent of the amount that human activity pumps into the atmosphere each year.

The U.S. Department of Energy estimates that, with improvements in plant productivity and conversion efficiencies, 25 percent of U.S.-imported oil could be displaced by plantation-grown trees by 2050.

So, while it isn't exactly Arbor Day, I'm saluting the shade tree today. And I'm wearing a sweater.

Take cuttings early in the morning or in the evening, when the sun isn't at its strongest. Cloudy days work, too. To increase your success rate, propagate early in the growing season:

Click photo for a step-by-step slide show:

Click photo for a step-by-step demonstration

Here are some perennials that can be propagated successfully with stem cuttings:

Alyssum

Artemisia

Aster

Bee balm (Monarda)

Bellflower (Campanula)

Blanketflower (Gaillardia)

Catmint (Nepeta)

Chrysanthemums

Clematis

Coral bells (Heuchera)

Coreopsis

Dusty miller (Senecio)

Lavender

Montauk daisy

(Nipponanthemum)

Penstemon

Phlox

Sedum

Shasta daisy (Leucanthemum)

Yarrow (Achillea)

Anyway, I'm having a bad week. My dog was (impulsively, I believe) diagnosed with cancer. I took her in for some routine vaccines a couple of days ago, and the vet announced his diagnosis point blank -- in front of my 11-year-old. I was shocked. Confused. And pissed off that he would say that in front of a child. Plus, all he's going on is enlarged lymph nodes. What's worse, my kids are now besides themselves with worry. If handled properly, I wouldn't even have mentioned it to them until I knew for certain.

I'm no doctor, but wouldn't you think he should order some tests before making such a proclamation? He didn't say, "it's suspicious," or "it might be cause for concern, let's investigate." No. He said, "your dog has cancer." I'm not kidding. Maybe she does have cancer, but for God's sake let's rule out an infection first, no?

My mom's not doing well, either. Not as bad as the dog, thank goodness, but I found out yesterday she has to undergo an unpleasant procedure. I'm optimistic she'll be fine in the long run, but for now, I'm concerned.

And people around me seem to be getting dramatic. Is there a full moon rising? I'm not a fan of drama. I don't cause any -- at least not deliberately -- and I don't want any. That's why I choose to be passive, mostly. And I choose my friends accordingly. There's no room for gossip or back-stabbing or manipulation or super-charged egos in my day. I don't have the energy.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a people person, I am. But sometimes I dream about how nice it would be to work with plants all day. You pull a few weeds, give them water, enjoy their colors and scents. Sure, some die, but really it's no tragedy. Just plant some more seeds and you're good to go. Life-threatening illnesses? Pull 'em out of the ground and start over. Drama? It would be a good thing. Coleus in the shade? Dramatic. My new Ligularia dentata -- interspersed between some Ostrich ferns? That's drama.

Better times ahead!

Click photo for a step-by-step demonstration

Here are some common pests that can interfere with happy tomato gardening endeavors, along with the best ways to deal with them.

Aphids

Wash aphids off with as hard a stream of water as the leaves and stem can handle. If you need to pull out the big guns, order up some lady bugs. They'll keep aphids in check.

Colorado potato beetle

These are best picked off by hand. Squash beetles, eggs and larvae.

Cutworms

Keep weeds in check to discourage their presence. Use cardboard collars around new transplants to protect their vulnerable lower stems.

Flea beetles

Row covers will protect transplants, but need to be removed before temperatures get too hot. Keep the bed clear of weeds to reduce populations.

Tomato hornworms

Usually kept in check by natural enemies, but if you hand pick larvae you'll nip them in the bud, so to speak.

Whiteflies

Your best defense against whiteflies is a good offense. Carefully check plants for infestation before purchasing.

I was wondering if Newsday is going to have another Great Long Island Tomato Challenge this year. If I have a contender, where and when should I bring it? -- Harold Politano, Deer Park

I've gotten nearly a dozen e-mails just like yours, Harold, and I don't even have flowers on my tomato plants yet. So, yes, back by reader demand, the second annual Garden Detective Great Long Island Tomato Challenge will take place at 7 p.m. Aug. 22.

Give your plants lots of TLC over the summer and bring your heaviest fruit to Newsday headquarters (235 Pinelawn Rd. in Melville) for an official weigh-in. I'll be on hand to weigh each tomato personally, a photographer will capture the moment, and light refreshments will be served.

Winner gets a handshake, my admiration and their story and picture in an upcoming issue of Newsday and here on the Garden Detective blog - oh, and the satisfaction of being crowned Tomato King or Queen.

In the meantime, keep your stories, tomato-growing strategies and photos coming to me at jessica.damiano@newsday.com.

We're trying to track their migration. Have you spotted any west of the Suffolk-Nasau border?

Help us chronicle their impact by sharing your photos at newsday.com/deer.

Summer just plain makes me happy. There's no other way to say it, aside from that perhaps I suffer from a form of seasonal affective disorder in the winter. My mood really gets a lift when I'm out in the sunlight. It's a primitive, sunlight-exposure thing, I guess. Plus, the bold display of colors spilling out of my garden this time of year also makes me happy.

And we humans aren't the only ones who appreciate extended sunlight. In parts of Alaska, because most of the 24-hour period is bathed in sunlight this time of year, plants rally take off, growing at more than twice the rate of what we consider a "normal" day here on Long Island. So I'm sure the longer day tomorrow -- though barely noticeable to us -- will give our plants a little boost, too.

The sun is in the Tropic of Cancer, and my Zodiac sign is Cancer, so maybe that's why I love summer so much. And as each year goes by, I have less and less tolerance for the cold. Plus, the summer seems to slip by more and more quickly each year. Where is the justice?

&%$#@ Squirrels!

They do it every year. I don't mind sharing, but they're like toddlers who've just acquired a box of chocolates, biting into one piece, abandoning it and taking another. Take one and finish it. Sheesh.

In any event, I'm looking forward to planting these tomatoes, which couldn't have come at a better time, what with the early demise suffered by their predecessors. It's a little late to plant, but in 85-90 days, say around Sept. 15, I hope to be drizzling them with olive oil.

Lycopersicon esculentum promises 10-12 ounce dark reddish-brown beefsteak tomaotes. Most tomatoes I've encountered have been red, aside from the ones that disappear into the black hole at the back of my refrigerator. When discovered, those are often green and black, but I digress.

They're said to have gotten their name from their land of origin, the Island of Krim (or the Crimean Peninsula) in the Black Sea off the Ukraine.

I don't have any photos of this one, but you can check out their freaky good looks here.

In the meantime, Matt Ippolito, a reader who was a top contender in last year's "Garden Detective Great Long Island Tomato Challenge," sent me an email:

"Some info to pass along on your tomato seed sprouting question-----------

http://www.ppdl.purdue.edu/PPDL/weeklypics/3-3-03.html

http://www.cookingforengineers.com/article/57/Surprises-In-Snacks"

Apparently, Bernadette isn't the only one to have stumbled across a sprouting tomato. There still doesn't seem to be an adequate explanation for it, just evidence that it sometimes happens. Hmmm.

In the meantime, all my in-ground tomato plants might have suffered a tragic fate, but the four I have growing in Earth Boxes are taking off like crazy.

The box on the right contains contains the Earth Box organic mixture, lime and fertilizer; the one on the left has standard issue stuff. Aside from health benefits, I'm curious to see if there's any difference in the way the plants develop. So far, no.

They're all just about ready for staking now. Problem is, the Earth Box staking system is prohibitively expensive, so I'm going to try to improvise with stakes and string or something. Any ideas?