Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

The following post is in honor of my husband’s birthday today. The man who has since helped me find pure joy outside of the Tomato Patch.

 Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

I met my husband on a psych ward. Did that get your attention? It usually does. At parties, when asked the standard question, “Where did you two first meet?”, our answer is usually met with a quizzical look, and cocking of heads to bring an ear closer, hopefully to hear details of  some juicy story involving a psychopath and a manic depressive making a love connection in the middle of a group session.

OK, I won’t keep you in suspense. Sorry to disappoint. My husband was a Recreational Therapist on staff in the Psychiatric Dept of a large hospital, and I was doing my psychiatric internship in Occupational Therapy. At least that’s our story and we are sticking to it.

But it's not as if I couldn't have used some therapy myself. I believe most of us could use a little “talk therapy” at some point in our lives. I loved my Psych affiliation. People with issues are usually drawn to the field, from my experience.

I have always been a Type A+ nervous person by nature-and nurture. My family stock is bubbling over with highly seasoned bundles of nerves. So most all milestones in my life-occasions that should be filled with pure joy have included, at the very least, butterflies in my stomach.

Graduating, I feared I may trip. My wedding day, ditto. The birth of my son, having him prematurely, turned what should be a purely joyous moment, to one fraught with fear for his well being.  So you can see the pattern here. They say some ridiculously high percentage of what you worry about never comes to pass. So I feel it’s important to worry about everything, to reduce my chances of anything bad happening by gaining a statistical advantage. My mother always said, “The things that end up getting you are the unexpected. The ones that blindside you.” So like a boy scout, I was always prepared.

In the early evening before my last day on the psych unit, my husband-to-be called my dorm and asked me out for pizza. I was beyond thrilled, as I loved working with him. He was smart with a dry sense of humor and quick wit, and his piercing blue eyes didn't hurt.  All the women patients would show up for early morning exercise class when he was leading it, whispering how he looked just like Magnum PI.

So he picked me up and we went to a local pizza joint. Midway through a shared pitcher of warm beer and overly greasy pizza, he said he just thought someone should take me out before I left. That immediately dropped any “date” pressure.  But I didn't care if it was just a goodbye pity pizza, I loved being with him. No need for nerves, as there were no expectations.  I did not want to leave the restaurant, even when their a/c stopped working- not good for midsummer in the South.

Across the street from the stuffy restaurant, there was a little pop up parking lot amusement park. You know the kind. I never trust them for safety. Not completely tightening a few bolts here or there, and you could fly off and plummet to your most certain death landing on a car hood. But when he asked if I wanted to go, of course I said yes! I didn’t want the night to end. I was ready to risk life and limb for this man and head to the Ferris wheel.  Luckily I survived to tell this story.

 He was off the next day, my last day at the hospital. A part of me was hoping he would show up, ask me not to leave. As I packed my belongings right after work and drove back to my family’s home for my second internship a state away, I was saddened with the thought I would never see him again.

My second fieldwork was in my local hospital, and I hated it from the first day.  So, after day four, I went out to the garden to de-stress with the mind numbing action of pulling weeds and the satisfaction of picking red ripe tomatoes. The garden always takes me away like a Calgon commercial.  (Most may be too young to know that reference.)

 As I sat in the tomato patch, I was feeling better after just a few minutes, when my mother came out with mail in her hand asking if I knew a “Tracy Cleghorn”. There you have it: Finding pure joy in a tomato patch. I quickly got up stumbling out through the maze of tomato cages like I just sat in a Fire Ant nest. Pure unadulterated feelings of joy emanated from somewhere deep inside where no butterflies had room to flitter about.  No nerves accompanying my elation like a side dish.

We didn’t have texting and email back in the Stone Age.  It was a four page handwritten letter filled with funny anecdotal stories that made me laugh throughout. Maybe that is why a once gardening hobby turned into my passion. And that’s how, decades later, TLC Floral was born. Out of a tomato patch.