My Son Trimmed My Tomato Plants . . .

A friend of mine says to me this morning, “Hey did you see what your son did?”

I, of course have no idea, “No what did he do this time?”

She was trying not to laugh, “He trimmed your tomato plants! Ha haha Ha Ha , oooo I can’t breath!” and she continued laughing for about five minutes.

I swear, this boy has got to be missing some grey matter, “Why, would he trim my tomato plants?”

She is still laughing, “I don’t know. . . ha ha ha ha ha hee!”

I may have to go step on her foot, just to stop her from choking on a laugh.

“Hang on let me come see this,” as I slip on my shoes and brush my hair back up on my head with my hand.

Now she’s laughing and pointing, “He he ha ha ho ho!”

I look across the yard to where two full tomato plants just starting to produce tomatoes, flowering everywhere, now look like a sheared sheep, “Are you serious, are you serious, you can’t be serious, I’ll kill the little . . .”

She is now ready for a Paramedic to come rescue her because she has not taken a breath in the past ten minutes, and she is still laughing, but now gasping for air like a fish that jumped out of the aquarium . . .  I wonder how many years they will give me for sticking my “pitch-fork” in her foot . . .

My gardening efforts are my secondary sanity device. If my writing about something doesn’t resolve my frustration, then the next step is gardening. So far I have not been charged with any violent offenses, so this works for me.

Now, as I look at my little skimpy tomato sticks, hardly any leaves, no flowers, no need for the wire tomato cage around it, a tear forms in my eye. I look to the other plant. It’s almost the same but since it has been trimmed the tomatoes that had started to grow look like bare little Christmas tree balls waiting to be colored.  I choke back a sob.

Throughout this whole situation I have been muttering under my breath. Not saying anything, just muttering in disbelief. I realize I had been doing so and it makes me wonder if I am about to cross over to the “mad” side of my personality.  So, I tell myself, “it isn’t that big a deal, I can always just buy tomatoes this year. It will be alright.”

Then I go into the house, grab a handful of big black contractor garbage bags, go into my son’s room . . . All of the bags are on the sidewalk in front of the house, I hope my son can find a place that is as comfortable as his old room . . .

(This is all fiction except the trimming of my tomato plants. I really have not relocated my son’s belongings to the street. Okay, so I am thinking about it. I still have not done so yet. ) 

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