Tomato Envy
Dear Remedy Rex,
After 41 years of a strong and steady marriage, I became a widower. We had both already retired by that time. Life got pretty lonely pretty quick.
Nothing made sense.
I had a bad couple of years.
Looking for purpose, I started a small vegetable garden in my backyard.
Not very elaborate. But at least it was something.
One day, there was a flier at the supply store: Men’s and Women’s Gardening Club. “New faces always welcome.”
Long story short, I joined. And I’m so glad I did. I made new friends!
We’d work on fundraisers together or help each other prepare for judging competitions. And it wasn’t just gardening talk, either. We’d have get-togethers and barbeques and pot-luck suppers.
The days seemed worthwhile again.
I found connection.
And as it turned out — I’m pretty good at gardening!
Entered my tomatoes in a competition and came away with 1st prize.
Since then, I’ve won a slew of awards. Who knew? My mantle is now full of trophies and ribbons.
Therein lies the problem.
I’m winning too much!
My peers in the gardening club are clearly annoyed. There’s tension in the group. A few people won’t talk to me. Not everyone, of course. But things are just not the same.
There are even whispers that I must be cheating in some way. It’s all very disheartening.
Truth be told? I don’t care much about winning. It’s an unexpected bonus. I just wanted friends.
But shouldn’t I enjoy my success?
Shouldn’t they be happy for me?
Is it wrong to strive for excellence?
This whole thing is quite confusing.
I’m starting to wish I’d never picked up a shovel.
Signed,
Strong Emotions Eventually Doom Satisfaction
Dear SEEDS,
Well, you say tomayto!
And they say tomahto!
Let’s call the whole thing off?
Alas, forgive my lyricism in your time of need. But we might just gain a morsel of insight from that comical song.
Actually — that’s not true. I don’t know what we’d learn from that!
Just thought it’d be fun to start there, you know?
I am a showman at heart. Guilty as charged.
But this is not about me! This is about you and your tomatoes. And gardening and competitions and the interpersonal dynamics found within.
Yes, winning is wonderful. Of course. Who wouldn’t want acclaim for their efforts?
However.
Did you join the gardening club to amass awards? To gain blue ribbons?
What I’m hearing is that you joined for other reasons. To be part of a community. To make connections.
Should your new friends be happy for your success?
Of course!
And no doubt that most of them were. And assuredly many still are.
But some people — and maybe you can relate to this — sometimes, some people just really need a win.
You know?
Life doesn’t always supply very many.
Perhaps you could share the spotlight.
With that in mind, and while there are infinite solutions to any problem, let’s boil your options down to this:
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1. Continue your unparalleled dominance in tomato tournaments.
- Rampage though rivals without mercy, squishing and stomping all others until you’re the undisputed super best-est tomato grower in all the land!
- Perhaps strive for excellence in the realm of lettuce as well.
- Make amazing salads that you eat alone.
2. Try sitting out the next few competitions.
- Don’t even enter, just make up some excuse. Be good-natured about it. Attend without expectation.
- Give your friends a chance at glory! Cheer on their successes. Commiserate with them in defeat.
- See if taking a step back might help move you forward.
- Shift your focus to the get-togethers and barbeques and pot-luck suppers.
I’ll leave the decision to you, my fine farming fellow.
May you continue to cultivate friendships that flourish and bloom.
REX
Counterpoint commentary by …
Lindi Dee DuVerne, Fire Breather
Sure, I might seem like a big-city gal. With me bein’ in show business and all.
But I come from a community of farmers.
My roots are in the soil, you might say. So I speak with authority on this here topic.
Shee-oot! I’d say you earned those wins. Not easy at all. You should be dang proud.
You gave the soil tenderness and care, you loved them little tomato plants.
You made somethin’ beautiful, and yet you seem humble! I like your style.
Not everyone learns that lesson.
Talkin’ about bein’ humble? Thinkin’ about my hometown?
It’s got me rememberin’ a certain story.
For in that farm town I grew up in? There was one family that loomed large above all else.
The Strandlingers.
And they came from old money, no doubt. Money so old they probably floated Noah the cash to go build the Ark.
The Strandlingers owned our town’s sawmill, they owned the grain processing plant. They even had their own bank!
Strandlingers’ First National. Next to the EZ-Save Market and behind Rosie’s Laundromat.
But we were a small town, and the Strandlingers … they always wanted more.
So when Droopy Dog Ice Cream — the largest supplier of frozen treats in the Oklahoma-North Arkansas corridor — when they came a-callin’?
Well, you just knew things were gonna get interestin’.
Droopy Dog was in the mindset to build a new distribution hub. In a place with lots of land and lots of labor.
Heck, we all loved Droopy Dog! And not just for the Bomb Pops and Nutty Buddies.
There was somethin’ special about that company; they believed in charity.
Every December came their annual Bags O’ Fun program: sacks of toys and basic supplies for the families in the Oklahoma-North Arkansas corridor. Serving 19,000 families each year.
Everyone loved it.
The Strandlingers? They only wanted a way into the business. And no one more than their matriarch: Prudence Louise Strandlinger.
Yeah, Queen Prue (as us commoners called her) finally found a reason to care about philanthropy. For once, she was willing to give it a try.
Let me set the scene: a bunch of us were down at the Community Center, helping pack some Bags O’ Fun, like we did every year. Gerry Johnson’s swing band kept the tempo movin’. Betsy Flesser cooked up her famous corn fritters in the kitchen.
It was a warm December night, a Friday night, with a nearly full moon fillin’ up the sky.
When all of a sudden — we saw a face we’d never seen before at the Community Center.
Queen Prue had come down from her hilltop estate in the name of charity.
Everyone stopped and looked as she sauntered in through the double doors. Behind her, lackeys wheeled in carts of gifts.
Queen Prue cleared her throat, arms wide, standing triumphant.
And when she opened her mouth, she bellowed:
“Alright y’all — who wants to see my big ol’ Droopy fun-bags!”
The room went stock still, like the air got sucked outta the place for a moment.
Then a roar of laughter, like I ain’t never heard, burst out all at once. From everyone! A big ol’ laugh that was thirty years comin’.
I swear to God, I was right there. I almost peed my pants!
Greatest moment in our town’s history; there oughta be a plaque or somethin’.
Once she realized what she’d said — well, I think she woulda blushed if her tiny heart coulda pumped the blood.
As it was, she slunk out as fast as she was able, her employees in tow.
Let’s just say she started talkin’ a little softer and actin’ a little less haughty after that evening.
Our town? It never did get the Droopy Dog distribution plant.
But I go back now and then, everyone’s lookin’ okay.
And you know for sure I still think of Queen Prue every time I unwrap a brand-new Bomb Pop or Nutty Buddie.
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