Don't pick my tomatoes!

<p>One beautiful summer day I was sitting at home, having just spoken with some tenants. The sky was crystal clear blue and the sun was beating down on my vines of peas and tomatoes. A rare day in the northwest. I could hear the children frolic outside on this glorious day. I relaxed inside but I could here a ruckus for the back side of the apartment. I swiftly moved to the back sliding screen door suspecting the worst.<br>
My wife had informed me only a few days before that the young children of the complex found a great deal of enjoyment out of plucking off my newly emerging green tomatoes. Once this fruit was in their hands, they would proceed to either sample the bitterness of the tomato or commence a squishy game of dodgeball. They had managed to obliterate my crop thus far with the exception of my largest prize tomato of the bunch. I had missed the first encounter but I was not about to let another massacre take place. <br>
Sure enough, as I came up to the screen door, I saw three little boys crowded around my tomato plant. I could not see what they were doing, but I couldn't let them rip off any more of my tomatoes. I threw open the sliding door with a bang and yelled, "No, don't pick my tomatoes." <br>
The ringleader in a Cars t-shirt and shorts stood amongst the knee-high squash and radishes in my garden, thrusting his fist into my tomato plant, hoping to grab a dark green beauty. His head quickly snapped in my direction to see who was disrupting his concentration. The noisy chatter from the boys died as I announced my presence from ten feet away. His beady black eyes met mine for a half second. Realizing that it was me, he sprang out of the box-garden and tried to make a hurried getaway with his comrades already a few steps in from of him. <br>
"Wait," I called out to them and they stopped moving their tiny legs. " I'm not going to hurt you. I want you to understand what this means for you to steal my tomatoes." They politely listened as I explained to them that I had been working really hard to make this garden grow, that it was something of great joy to me to see a seed grow into a plant, spout flowers and produce precious fruits and vegetables. "Please do not take any more of my tomatoes, otherwise I will be very sad," I concluded calmly. They were just being curious, adventurous.
But even so, I couldn't let this continue. Luckily, my largest tomato had not been plucked. It remained hidden under the dense layers of leaves growing from the plant. Though I had intervened this time, there were other boys on the property that would try their hand at ripping away my tomatoes. I had and would continue to protect my garden from those who would damage it, knowingly or not. </p>

Stealing Back

Is stealing back something that was originally yours considered stealing if it has already been given to someone else? or is it merely reclaiming what was mine in the first place?

I was involved in Mock Trial in high school and had worked all winter long on practicing for the competition in the spring. I would deliver the cross examination of a plaintiff witness and I was not about to let the opposition win. The day before the competition my teammates, coach, teacher, and I loaded up in the travel bus with bucket seats to begin our three-hour journey to Bend, OR. School trips were always fun. I sat down among my friends and began talking about what movie we would see that night.
"Jamison, can I speak with you for a moment?" It is my teacher/coach Ms. K. I follow her to the stern of the bus. As we sit down on the last seats. "I want you to give your cross to Tilli."
I stare back at her Steven Tyler face with poofy grey hair, uncertain of what she has just asked me to do.
"Why should I do that?" I question. She had been at every practice, every late night trial run and had seen me try and try again to perfect my cross examination.
"I think that the team would do better if you give up your cross to someone more confident."The black marble statue sits across from me, awaiting my reply.
"Sure, I guess so," I finally give in. She wouldn't take no for an answer, I think to myself. For the good of the team. The statue stands up and, thanking me for my openness, walks cautiously up the swaying bus between the grey seats. I now become the stationary figure while my brain chewed on this sudden change of events. I feel my face harden and my eyes dry out from not blinking. I decide to stand up and move back to my friends. I plop down in my seat. If I gave up my cross, I would only be partially competing. Was competing or winning more important to me?
"What was that about?" asks one friend, Rebecca.
"Ms. K wants me to give Tilli my cross."

We arrive in the Comfort Inn in Bend and we split ourselves up into rooms. Before we head out for some activities, the entire team of students meet together to discuss our plans. "Also, something else," announces Rebecca, "Ms. K has asked that Jamison give up his cross to Tilli." Chatter erupts out of the students like a flock of starlings on a telephone wire. "I don't know about the rest of you," she continued as the students continued to whisper, "but we have all worked really hard this year and I think that Jamison should still get to do his cross."
This is a new idea. Deliberately defying the received orders would not yield a happy ending. Conflict arose in me. Do what is right. Do what I want.
"Ms. K only mentioned this to me. I would rather not do it since I am already doing so much," interjected Tilli from the couch across the room.
"Well, thanks for your support," I finally found my words after considering the consequences. "I will go tell Ms. K that I will still do it."
"No, I don't think we should tell her," said Rebecca.

We burn the midnight oil by revising and rewriting my note cards for the next day. The following morning we come into the courthouse and take our seats at the long council table in a dome-shaped courtroom. The dome was transparent, allowing natural light to fall on the students and volunteers that now flooded the room.  The chairs are very large and comfortable as the trial begins. It will be some time before I begin my cross. Opening statements are given by opposing council and my friend Caleb. I feel the blood begin to warmly pump through my carotid arteries. I am doing what should do, because I worked for it, I reassure myself, but the pumping continues to force blood to my head. My Pilot pen keeps clicking as Tilli begins her direct examination. There were still twenty minutes before I would begin. I watch the students, dressed in suits and dresses, ready to perform their duties.
I watch the minute hand on the wall clock so closely it nearly burns a hole at the back of my retina. I had forgotten up until this point about the spectators behind us, but now my mind is wondering. I think of Ms. K sitting behind us, waiting for Tilli to one again stand. This is her moment, to finally win and move on to the more glorified state competition. She reminded us constantly of this goal. I prepare myself mentally my part in the play where I would enter stage right. She, as the director did not expect this stage hand to enter in opening night. The witness is telling the story. Do I stand up and object if the witness lies, or is that Tilli's job? I keep quiet. I shuffle through my note cards instead. My shirt gets tighter around my neck.
"Cross examination," the judge announces from his lofty pedestal.
I shoot up out of my seat like a mortar shell. "Yes, your honor." I begin by looking at my carefully chosen arsenal of words. I am not listening to my words. Instead I feel a pair of eyes searing my back through my black suit coat and blue shirt. I was secretly defying one of the laws of a sport: listen to your coach. No matter how the next few minutes would be remembered, I'm sure they would be different. I continue my cross. Longest four minutes of my life. Sitting back down relieves my now drenched back. It is over, the deed was done. What a relief. My collar regains its ability to stretch and my neck stops throbbing. The chair becomes a La-Z-Boy and I slouch back, probably not looking very official, but hey, life isn't all serious. I know someone who is seriously pissed though.

After the grueling six-hour competition comes to an end my team mates come and congratulate me on my triumph. Ms. K swiftly closes the distance. "What was that about?" I can tell how this is going to go.
"We all thought that, because Jamison had worked on his cross all winter, he should be the one to do it." responded Rebecca quickly. We expected confrontation to happen at one point or another. We stood sternly awaiting the response.
Her eyes were always hard to see the emotion in. Today is different. The bottomless well was not full of water but fire, acid, anything that would cause harm. "Well, I hope you are happy with yourselves." And with that she didn't speak another word to us the rest of the trip back. We take a team picture together. We didn't win the competition, but a different victory had been won today.

My First Angry Memory

I had just entered the library at the end my school day. I was very excited for this day to be over so that I could spend more time with the person that I loved, my girlfriend. It had been a brisk winter day, certainly not a day when red roses and blue violets would normally have been able to grow, but here we were on that day of love and school was finally over. I scanned the room for the table with all of the flowers.
I had seen it already that day between Calculus and English classes to make sure that my roses had been delivered. It had been littered with vases and bouquets for other girls in the school, but I quickly recognized my gift. I remember placing the order at the florist for fifteen roses of all different colors to symbolize my love and the number of months of our wonderful relationship. They had been beautiful flowers, thorns and all. Even the small amount of baby breath enhanced the color. I was sure that my message would be well communicated.
I floated over to the table but could no longer see that marvelous display of foliage that had been present an hour before. Perhaps they had already been picked up; I hurried down to my locker to find my girlfriend putting her things away. "Thank you so much for the flowers! I love them!" and she threw her arms around me. Thank goodness, I thought to myself, she did get them. But I looked around.
"Where are the flowers?" I asked as I loaded my backpack and closed my locker.
She finished loading up her things as well. "I saw them earlier in the library. I left them there so I wouldn't destroy them." We hoisted our backpacks and headed back to the library. Perhaps I had just overlooked them out of nerves.
Upon entering the library we were both expecting to see the roses. My eyes had not deceived me five minutes before; the flowers were not there. My first thought was that someone had moved them somewhere else. I tried to keep my cool and walked around the library and through the office. They were not to be found.
I had had things stolen from me before in my life: pens, paper, notes. Sure, I would get upset when this happened, but to me these were items that were easily replaceable and I didn't feel the need to get mad. Should I have let people know my opinions on stealing? Now, when it really mattered the most to me, someone thought it was funny to take these roses to see what kind of reaction they could get? I began to feel my face get hot, my hands shake, my thoughts were centered on one thing...Who took the roses?
This emotion of anger was new to me. I had seen it in movies, on TV, among my friends. I really didn't know what was going on around me. I must have ran around the the school halls ten times hoping that I would find the perpetrator so that I could scream at them. Thankfully the students had all left for the day and only faculty and staff were left. While my girlfriend spoke with them rationally, I continued to search every hall while my blood began to boil with my veins. I found the card that I had written in a trash can in the hall. I was so pissed off I can't even remember how long I ran around looking for these flowers. Time had no place in my search for the culprit. And once I found them...well, I didn't know what was going to happen, I hadn't thought about that. I just knew that I was angry, so very angry. I wanted to yell and shout at them, but would I really?
The flowers were found. The school secretary saw a girl get off the bus with them. She brought them back to the school for us. She told us that the girl had wanted to take them home, so that she could tell her family that someone had got her flowers. The poor thing. One of the flowers was bent when we received them. We both knew the girl who had done it and felt sorry for her and understood the situation.
I don't know if she was ever punished for what she did, but I didn't feel it was my place to deal it out. We ended up buying her a flower.


This memory teaches me that it is possible to forgive people for what they do. Acting out of anger doesn't help solve a situation. It is better to keep one's head and think before acting. Anger caused me to become a different person, someone that is not kind and thoughtful and can hurt others. However my inner self did not care about this girl . I wanted that person to feel just how upset I was. This isn't normally how I react in situations. This experience really helped me learn to not get upset about those things that don't matter as much in the world. Nothing happened to me personally or to my girlfriend. If something had happened to us, this story would have been different, but it was just flowers.